Ugly
by BadHarlot
Summary: Caught in the act of unintentional suicide by Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy must come to terms that he isn't alone anymore. Can Hermione snog some sense into him? Or better yet, a hand-job to happiness? M/F, language, sexual content, self-injury.
1. How I wish you could see the potential

A/N: I'm hoping this turned out well enough... I put a lot of thought and effort into this one. Originally wrote it in past tense, then while I was running through some ideas a couple nights ago I started thinking what effect present tense would have on it. So voila. Please review, this is the first ever present tense fic I've written and I'd like to know how I did. Oh, and this was originally written as a one shot, but it kinda ran away with itself.

Summary: Caught in the act of unintentional suicide by Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy must come to terms that he isn't alone anymore. Can Hermione snog some sense into him? Or better yet, a handjob to happiness? DM/HG

Warnings: Dark themes, self-injury, sexual content, general effed-upness.

_I don't look in the mirror  
I don't like what I see staring back at me  
Everything is clearer  
I'll never see what you see  
And I rot in my skin  
As a piece of me dies everyday  
I know I'm nothing  
Because I'm ugly_

_- Ugly, Smashing Pumpkins  
_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He's shaking again, but primarily from the cold. The stone and tile bathrooms of Hogwarts, though beautiful, are notorious for being frigid this late in the year.

With a deftness that overrides his shaking fingers, Draco Malfoy quickly unbuttons his cloak and school uniform, letting them fall silently to a pile at his feet. Numbly, he steps into the dry tub, cringing as his toes hit the cold porcelain and reaches forward to turn on only one of the two taps. He doesn't remember the first time he did this. Only the months, and days, and nights - almost every night - when he has done this exact same thing before.

It has become something of a routine. After a day of disgustingly ruthless Slytherin politics, hostile glares from the Gryfindors, bitting insults thrown at the Golden Trio, mind numbing classes followed by after-class meetings where the teachers warn him he must bring up his marks, cold letters of warning and reprimand from his father, monotonous Head Boy duties, and more and more wishes of an early death, he returns to the Head dorm before Granger and divulges in this bittersweet habit. It comforts him, wrapping him in a secure shell of steam, of porcelain, of heat.

He sits in the bottom of the tub, pulling his knees up to his chin and doesn't move as the spray of scalding water and steam slowly turns his pale skin into a bright angry red.

He doesn't even understand it. Why did Dumbledore choose _him _to be Head Boy? What the hell does Dumbledore even _see_ in him? He stops all movement, staring at the creamy white porcelain inches in front of him. For that is it. That is the whole bloody, underlying enigma in the matter. As much as he wishes that it is _he _who hates _them_, he has to admit to himself the sickening truth; It is _they_ who hate _him_. It is _he_ who hates _himself_.

"Stoppit," he mutters, burying his palms in his eyes. He hits his head, once, roughly, against the tub in a strange effort to quell the thoughts trying to crawl their way into his mind. But his thoughts cannot be controlled and against his will he is forced to entertain the things he wishes most to forget.

There is no love in his fathers eyes. He can't ever remember it there, even as a child. As much as he'd obeyed him, done everything he possibly could to make his father love him - even to hear once that he was proud of him - was all in vain. Those cold cerulean eyes have never held anything but contempt for the boy.

He hits his head against the tub for a second time and feels the hot press of pain from somewhere farther away, like it is not quite part of him. Yet in the same strange way the pain seems to momentarily flush the thoughts and images from his mind. It is a release much too precious to be ignored and like so many times before he starts up a slow rhythm of physical pain to keep the other, more deadly pain from taking over.

thump ...thump... thump

When he was little, he'd made up a game. In it his father wasn't really his father, but instead an evil, inescapable foe who Draco was called upon to fight. He was little then, but he was also brave and he protected his mother from this dark man. And in his game his mother would thank him, and tell him she loved him. It was one day, as he ran around the manor, hiding in the darkened corners, and slipping out to run some more that he spotted Lucius - the villain - and he was caught. His father asked him what he was doing, and in his childlike innocence he explained his game. His father was angry and grabbed him by the arm and told him that he wasn't Harry _fucking_ Potter - fucking, he still remembered the sound of that word, yet it wasn't the first time he'd heard it - and if he ever caught Draco playing that game again, he would kill him.

He was five at the time, but he understood and never played it again. And when he was old enough to realize it himself, he could also see how similar his imagined game was to Potter's life and was properly disgusted.

_thump thump thump_

Potter. Now isn't he really the source of all Draco's problems? He is the one who turned down his offer of friendship. Humiliated him in front of all his peers, chose a bloody _Weasley_ and a _mudblood_ over a Malfoy. It sickens him, seeing the three of them everyday all joyful and happy and caring and so god-awfully _pristine_. Always the perfect Golden Trio. But what sickens him more is the way they effect him. Making him feel envious, and bitter and so bloody overshadowed. And that is another thing he can't comprehend; he knows in his mind that he is a pureblood - a Malfoy - better then them, better then everyone. But then where does this feeling come from - this horrible dirty taint, all over, as if _he_ is the mudblood. And why was he chosen to feel this way? But isn't it fitting? Isn't he the evil, selfish, uncaring son of a death eater? The horrible, _ungodly, disgusting, f__**oul creature--**_

_ThumpThump__**THUMP**_

Draco's mind explodes in a brilliant flash of black and white stars and he gasps, groping wildly for the edge of the tub. All the blood has rushed to his head and he can hear his heart beating noisily in his ears as he shakes his head and sits upright in the tub, all in an effort to stop the dizzy spinning in his head.

He reaches for the faucet, turning off the spray of scalding water, and stands clumsily in the tub; the edge of his vision dimming threateningly at the speed in which he stands. It takes him less then a second to conclude that it is definitely time to get out.

By the time he's dried himself, and slipped on a pair of black pants - naturally - the pain in his head has receded into a dull throb. With a sigh, he moves his way languidly towards the sink and mirror on the left side of the room, opposite the bath.

As Draco reaches it, he braces his right arm on the edge of the porcelain basin - being left handed - and uses the other arm to reach up and raise the damp silver-blond bangs from his face. The reflection in the mirror is an unhappy scowl as he inspects the damage; a large bump on his forehead is slowly spreading into a painful looking bruise. He glares at it for a minute more and then lowers his bangs back down, placing his right arm parallel to the left on the other side of the sink.

He leans forward a bit, his face coming within inches of the mirror and his eyes narrow minutely, his knuckles turning white as he clutches at the edge of the sink. He doesn't think anyone can understand how much he disgusts himself in this moment. Moreover, he can't remember feeling any differently, or when and how his thoughts have turned so bloody oppressing.

As he stares at his reflection in the mirror he tries to imagine what everyone else sees when they look at him; a tall aristocratic boy, beautifully handsome in a cold, yet undeniably intriguing way. Obviously rich, someone who has everything he ever wanted. Yet looking at himself in the mirror now, he can see the truth. He looks like nothing but a small, pathetic child, searching for something he was never destined to have; a feeling - an emotion - that he can't quite understand.

"I hate you," he whispers at the pale boy in the mirror, "I hate you! **I hate you!**"

With a sudden sharp crack, the glass shatters, sending deadly shards flying every which way. Oddly enough, it is his emotions alone that have been enough to break the mirror. It is a small sample of wandless magic, something he hasn't done since he was six years old and having a temper tantrum.

"Bloody mirror," he murmurs as he reaches up to touch his eyebrow where he has a sneaking suspicion he's been hit. Sure enough, his fingers come away covered in a warm crimson fluid. He rubs his bloody fingers together absentmindedly and steps back from the sink.

With a hiss of pain and a curse, the tender flesh of his foot is pierced by yet another piece of glass. After a momentary pause of self-pity for his wounded appendage, he carefully scans the floor first before he hobbles - favoring his uninjured foot - to the tiled wall. He sinks down along the wall warily, emotionally and physically drained from his outburst.

"Dammit," he swears again, for no particular reason this time, as he less then lightly bangs the back of his head against the wall in exasperation. He doesn't even want to imagine what he looks like in this moment; siting sprawled against the wall amongst a shattered mirror, broken glass, and bloody footprints.

His eyes scan the washroom absentmindedly, out of something suspiciously close to boredom and several spots of red catch his eye. He glances down at his bare chest and for the first time notices that there are several small but deep cuts spread across it; it seems that his eyebrow was not the only thing that acquired damage when the mirror exploded. He pokes at one, smearing the crimson spot into more of a streak.

From seemingly nowhere, the thought comes into his mind of what would happen if he were to cut himself. On purpose.

He scoffs out loud, shaking his head at his own stupid thoughts, but the idea won't leave his mind, and the more he mulls it over, the better it sounds. Deciding to humor himself, if only for a second, he picks up a rather large shard of the broken mirror and twists it between his fingers, watching the light glint off the sharp edges. Now, where would be the perfect place to make the first cut? Either from an odd burst of inspiration or his own cynical thoughts, Draco easily comes to the answer without more then a seconds pause.

Turning his arm, he smiles down at the impossibly pale skin of his wrist where, if his father has his way, there will be the skull and snake tattoo. He doesn't know when this will happen - months, weeks, maybe even days - his father never tells him anything.

It seems befitting that this is where he should scar first, Draco musses and with a burst of recklessness he viciously drags the glass across his wrist. The immediate shock of pain is surprising and he gasps lightly, the glass slipping from his fingers. Though he is no idiot, he expected for some reason that there would be no pain involved in self mutilation. He'd heard or perhaps read about it before; people who cut themselves and felt no pain, and in the same way, he expected the same results.

Yet as he holds up his hand in front of his face and watches the blood run down his palm and drip from between his fingers, he no longer feels disappointed. The crimson liquid is oddly mesmerizing and the pain is distracting; he cannot get enough of it.

He picks up another shard of glass from the floor - after all, there are many to choose from - and after a brief hesitation, drags it up his arm once more.

This time, instead of being in shock of the pain, he revels in it. He imagines that he can almost feel every nerve come alive, and the swift rush of blood through his veins to the small, stinging wound.

Before long he is slicing away at any exposed skin he can see. At first they are light and shallow, only experimenting with his body's reactions, but soon there is a wild, uncontrolled look in his pale gray eyes and the cuts are deep and painful. Breathing hard, adrenaline pumping through his veins - though he doesn't understand why - he stops to inspect his handy work. His chest and arms are a patchwork of deep red lines and he smiles gleefully, moving to make another cut.

Suddenly, from somewhere outside of his self induced stupor, he notices a voice on the other side of the door - from the Head common room. His arm freezes in mid-air.

"Malfoy!" comes the immensely agitated - and agitating - voice of Hermione Granger. It's obvious by her tone that she's been calling his name for sometime."It's your turn to patrol the hallways! You have two minutes and you bloody well hurry up!"

He hears the sound of footsteps, a door opening and his name being called from a seemingly father distance. Then more footsteps and he can hear her well enough again to make out words. "Get your arse out here! You're going to be late and I will not be blamed for this!"

She stops yelling long enough to mutter something that sounds suspiciously like _"Bloody Slytherin. Can't be trusted to do a thing himself. Freakin baby"_ but the fact that he can make out what she is muttering is the first thing that alerts him to the realization that she is much too close to the bathroom door.

He instantly tries to think back to if he had remembered to lock the door or not, but he gets his answer when there is a click, the door opens, and Hermione follows.

* * *

End of first chapter.

A/N: Okay, this was supposed to be a one shot but it got waaaaaaaaay too long. I actually have most of the other bits written. So I'm going to finish the rest and then make weekly or bi-weekly updates once I've separated all the chapters. This was story was inspired by a rather effed up friend of mine that lies in the tub under scalding water when he's drunk, and there's pretty much no getting him out. Anyway, review review review! Please?


	2. The potential of you and me

A/N/: Here's the next bit, hope you like it.

The song for this ones "Reckoner" by Radiohead. Beautiful.

* * *

In the last chapter:

_"He instantly tries to think back to if he had remembered to lock the door or not, but he gets his answer when there is a click, the door opens, and Hermione follows._

"Malfoy, you prat, are you in here? I've been calling you for -" her rampage stops mid-sentence as she steps fully into the bathroom. Her eyes scan the room, widening on each detail, until they settle as big as saucers on Draco's form against the wall. Grey eyes lock on to amber, Hermione's wide in varying degrees of confusion and then horror, as obvious circumstances are deducted. Likewise, Draco's features fall into a defensive glare, just daring her to question him and his odd surroundings.

"Malfoy..." she starts slowly, wary of the daggers Draco is sending her way. But as much as he tries to look opposing, his demeanor comes off as something of a frightened, cornered animal; ready to bolt at anytime. "What exactly happened here...?"

It is pretty obvious by the shattered mirror, the blood, and the rather distraught, cut up, teenager with a piece of equally bloody glass in his hand to tell exactly what has happened. He knows she isn't stupid, that much is obvious to anyone in Hogwarts, so the only other option for her skirting around the subject is that she is extremely wary and uncomfortable in this situation. Draco has to smile at that. Wonderful, brave, one-third-of-the-golden-trio Granger is afraid of a little blood.

"What are you doing?" she asks when it becomes evident he isn't going to answer her first question.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he says, and just to get a sickening rise out of her - he's always loved getting her upset - he slowly drags the jagged piece of glass across his arm once more, his eyes never leaving her face, watching her reaction.

"Stop that!" she cries, the horror and revulsion evident in her voice, as she watches a thick line of red liquid bubble up from under the sharp edge.

"Why do you care? You hate me!" he snaps and then feels immensely annoyed for sounding much to bothered by the fact.

She must have noticed the tone in his voice also, because she looks at him strangely then. "I don't hate you."

"Oh sure," Draco scoffs, rolling his eyes, "and I'm the Queen of England."

In that moment he suddenly feels like laughing at the absurdity of it all. Here he is, lying in a pool of his own blood and having a seemingly civil conversation with the mudblood about how much she doesn't hate him.

But before he can let out a chuckle, Hermione is talking again."I'm not joking, Malfoy. I don't hate you."

He stops and looks at her, his gray eyes boring into the back of her skull. "You... don't? " he asks her slowly, narrowing his eyes at her almost suspiciously.

"No, of course I don't _hate_ you, " and then after a short awkward pause, "but I'd still like to know what in Merlin's name is going on in here."

He motions around him with both arms. "What do you think I'm doing? I'm having a fucking party!"

She seems to ignore him. "You're - " she stops and looks away uncomfortably for a moment. "You're not trying to kill yourself, are you?"

Kill himself? He has the unconscious urge to laugh at her again. Does it look like he's trying to k... His thoughts trail off uncomfortably. Is he? He looks around the room, and then his eyes scan over all the cuts on his arms and chest. And the slowly spreading pool of his own blood beneath him. How much more would he have to loose until he slipped into unconsciousness, and then death?

"Of course I'm not trying to kill myself," he says faintly. It sounds weak, even to his own ears.

Hermione frowns at him worriedly and it is the closet expression to concern he's ever seen directed his way. "I think we need to get you to Madame Pomfrey."

"No!" he yells, and then again because she looked offended - though he doesn't even want to think about why he even cares, "Don't take me to Madame Pomfrey, I'm fine. Really." At her unconvinced look he motions weakly with one arm, "Here, just come help me up."

She bites her lip but only hesitates briefly. There is a quiet awkwardness between them that is expected as she moves forward and grabs his arm to heft him up. He winces lightly as her hand closes around several cuts, but after a moment she has him standing upright. Yet the minute that is accomplished, Draco's masochistic activities from minutes earlier are brought drastically into effect and he lightly wavers on his feet.

With a small squeak of terror, Hermione grabs his torso to hold him upright. "It's alright, just a little blood loss!" she says tightly, too high pitched, and it's obvious that the statement was made in more of an effort to comfort herself then the boy in her arms.

Draco, after regaining a semblance of coherence and noticing his rather prone position leaning heavily against none other then Hermione Granger, is in the mood to protest. But Hermione will have none of it. After a brief scuffle, she has him securely upright with an arm slung over her shoulders, and one of her smaller ones curled carefully around his midsection - though his expression is anything but happy.

"Come on," she barely whispers and tugs lightly, leading the way out of the bathroom and into the common area. As they stumble along rather awkwardly, Hermione - with a slow spreading awareness - becomes conscious of the fact that she is pressed rather closely, and rather intimately, against one of her enemies. One of her enemies who happens to be male. Male and currently shirtless. Hermione Granger would never consider herself a normal hormonal teenager, but as her eyes slide along his pale torso, she is forced to realize a rather unsettling fact; he is tall and sleekly muscular from years of playing seeker on the Slytherin quidditch team and besides the metallic tinge of drying blood, he smells of a fresh shower and aftershave, and something more, something distinctly male.

Even more unsettling is that in that moment, with a small jolt, Hermione suddenly realizes that it is quite an _appealing_ torso and a rather _pleasant _scent. Abruptly, her cheeks redden at the thought and she chastises herself internally, swiftly snapping her gaze away from his body to concentrate on the path ahead of them. Yet, the color on her cheeks refuses to fade.

Also as they walk, Hermione becomes aware of another fact; just how much Malfoy is using her for support and the way his eyes flutter tiredly. She bites her lip, concerned of how much blood he's lost. He seems close to passing out. She forms a plan in her mind, glancing briefly at the door to Malfoy's bedroom directly across from her own. It too, like hers, is locked with a password which she doubts Mafloy would let her know, even in his current state.

"Here, come this way." she says, and readjusts her arm on his waste, pulling him towards her own room. He doesn't really seem to notice where they are going or, thankfully, listen as she hurriedly whispers her password; _Hogwarts a History._

She drags them into the room, and drops him down gracelessly onto her large crimson bedspread. His eyes snap open with the movement, and he blinks, finally bringing everything into focus. The relatively small room is clean and tidy, decorated with her house colors of red and gold. Nothing is very personal about it, except for a framed picture of her parents on the nightstand.

Realizing where he is, Draco cringes, "Yuck... so this is your room."

"Mmmhm," Hermione mumbles, not listening or caring about the disgusted tone of voice. She's digging under her bead for something, and with a small "aha!" she straightens up and plunks a white plastic box marked 'safety kit' onto the bed by his feet.

At the strange look Draco sends her, she smiles, which Draco finds slightly alarming. "You can never be too safe with Harry and Ron."

Hermione opens the box, and pulls out some gauze bandages. Both Gryfindor and Slytherin are silent as a look of concentration falls over Granger's face – one which Draco recognizes quite well from when she's working in class – and she directs her attention to the cuts marring his arms and chest. As she reaches out to touch him Draco stiffens, yet when her fingers touch his skin they are warm and gentle. He relaxes ever so slightly, becoming mildly embarrassed with his reaction; what did he expect? Burning Mudblood powers? It's just confusing, he decides, all this...strangeness with Granger. Hermione, for her part, hasn't noticed his odd behavior and continues to work in silence, broken only by Draco sighing tiredly.

"Well, you sure did a number on yourself, " she says lightly, after several minutes, trying unsuccessfully to break some of the tension in the room. Her tidy fingers continue to work magic - literally and figuratively - over his arms and chest. Draco shrugs his shoulders (causing Hermione to make a small sound of annoyance when a bandage slips).

"I'll be able to heal them all completely, " she tries again, as she lightly waves her wand over his left arm, then moves to his chest, "And hopefully I'll be able to remove any scarring."

He looks at her oddly out of the corner of his eyes as she continues to chatter away about healing spells. It isn't that he finds what she says boring, it's more that she's carrying on a conversation as if they were...friends. She hasn't seem to notice this fact yet; probably because she's falling into the casual and comforting atmosphere of a familiar conversation.

"-and there was this particularly nasty case that Madame Pomfrey showed me," she continues, "Oh, you should have seen-..." she trails off, finally aware of his eyes on her. "What?"

He shakes his head lightly. "Nothing."

Yet truly, Draco is confused. He doesn't understand why she's being so nice to him. He doesn't understand why, after years of torment, she would still go out of her way to help him. And most of all, he doesn't understand how a Mudblood can be so pretty. All these thoughts are giving him a migraine and he sighs, closing his eyes. Within minutes, with the blood loss making him tired and Hermione's gentle hands still working over him, he's drifted into sleep.

"There, done!" Hermione declares several moments later with a small sense of satisfaction and looks up with a smile. It falters as she notices for the first time that Draco has fallen asleep.

Slightly annoyed – a little gratitude would have been nice - she stands up and only then does she noticed all the blood. The red on his torso and the bedspread has dried into a dark dirty brown. She looks down, realizing that her sweater is also relatively soaked in dried blood.

She cringes a bit at the sight but a mess is not much for a witch and with a quick '_scourgify'_ any stains have disappeared. But the blood is the least of her problems, she quickly realizes, because Draco Malfoy is currently occupying a good half of her bed and seems to have no intention of moving. Or waking up, for that matter.

She has a brief internal struggle, weighing the pros and cons of leaving Malfoy in her bed. On one hand, this is _Malfoy; _mean spirited, Voldemort loving, icky little Slytherin weasel and what would Harry and Ron think? "_So what did you do yesterday, Hermione? Oh, nothing, just had Malfoy in my room for a sleepover." _Yes, that would go over well.

Yet in the end it is her sense of compassion that wins. Malfoy obviously needs a good nights rest after all the blood he's lost and Hermione can't bring herself to wake him. After all, it is now apparent that there is much more to Draco Malfoy's inner psyche then she initially thought.

Sighing tiredly, Hermione moves towards the other side of the bed and sits on the end lightly. She pulls her sweater over her head, leaving her in a light pink tank-top. However, she doesn't dare fully undress or wear pajamas – what if Malfoy woke in the night and _saw _her? Begrudgingly accepting her fate, she lays down on the bed and curls up on her side, regarding Malfoy as he lay sleeping on his back.

His bare chest is rising and falling in a steady rhythm and she can't help but admire the shadow and definition in the muscles of his chest and arms. It's not very often that Hermione Granger has the chance to appreciate the male form up close, so she's alarmed by the primal feelings it stirs within her, making her feel very female.

Slightly overwhelmed, she rolls to her other side and stares blankly at her dresser. Stupid Malfoy. Stupid Quidditch.

There's a sound from behind her and she flips back over, scared that she's woken him. She inhales sharply as she comes nose to nose with the aforementioned young man. Thankfully, he's still sleeping, but Hermione dare not move as his face is lying only inches from her. She can feel his breath tickle across her cheek as he exhales and she feels her own hitch in her throat. His face is so close she can make out the silvery blond stubble barely making a shadow along his jaw. Nor can she ignore the slight furrow in his brows, the stress he carries in his face, even while he's sleeping. It is something she's never noticed before.

Very quietly, Hermione turns back to her other side and once again, stares blankly at her dresser.

Hours later, in the moments before her eyes drift shut and she too, succumbs to slumber, she has a wonderful thought. Perhaps this is all a large misunderstanding; Malfoy is still the huge git she's grown up with and he doesn't have any strange self-mutilating behaviors that cover up layers of himself that she never wanted to know about. She almost smiles stupidly at the thought before Malfoy turns over in his sleep and jostles her back into reality. How the hell has she gotten herself into such a mess?

* * *

End of second chapter

A/N: Okay, on with the thrid one! REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! Please?


	3. Gotta spend some time, love

A/N: Wahoo, new stuff. Enjoy!

The song for this will be "If winter ends" by Bright Eyes. The one part in it makes me laugh.

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Draco Malfoy is floating somewhere between sleep and wakefulness; the odd state, seconds before conscious thought, where one cannot discern the difference between dreams and reality. Yet, as he rolls forward and comes into contact with a solid mass, there is a realization of another person beside him. He breaths deeply and there is the most pleasant smell and welcoming warmth radiating from the small form. Draco reaches out instinctively, drawing the body firmly against his frame with one arm.

Unaware of his own actions, he buries his face into the source of the wonderful smell and groans lightly as his face brushes against the warmest, softest skin he's ever encountered. Unable to help himself, he slowly begins to skim his lips and jaw, back and forth, along the soft contours of the prize in his arms. As if charting a map, the picture of what he brushes against floats languidly into his consciousness ; a neck, the curve of a shoulder. His hands continue the exploration and more softness is discovered; the curve of a hip, the warm flat expanse of a stomach.....

*~*~*~*

Even in sleep, Hermione Granger realizes that there is something touching her. Or more accurately, someone. And if we are going into details, it would have to be described as a caress, the soft brushing of lips and skin against her back. It is entirely too pleasant, yet ticklish, and a small smile graces her features. She shifts slightly and becomes aware of another sensation. A hand. A large hand, splayed against her stomach.

Suddenly, Hermione is much too awake. She freezes in shock, realizing exactly who's warm, hard body her back is pressed against.

Malfoy.

Malfoy, who must still be asleep. Asleep, because there is no way he'd be touching her this gently, this maddeningly – causing small jolts of electricity to shoot along her nerves from the contact of his touch to the tip of her toes - if he was awake.

As if a cold bucket of water has been thrown over her, Hermione jerks upright in bed. Subsequently, Malfoy also jerks upright in bed.

"What the hell?" He mutters, sleepily, confused.

They turn simultaneously, and their eyes meet. Gray against amber. There is a pause and then an indescribable understanding and horror passes over each of there faces. And it is too much for Hermione, much too much, and she has to say something, anything to break the silence. She utters the first thought that comes to her.

"Are you depressed, Malfoy?"

"What?" he barks, shocked, and moves back a little. He's looking at her like she's grown another head.

She wants to clamp a hand over her stupid mouth but it's too late now, she has to go along with it. "Are you depressed?"

She doesn't know what she expects, but releases an inward sigh of relief when he mutters darkly, "Depression is for suicidal muggles." He scoots back, pushing himself up from the bed.

Her spark of righteous indignation is almost genuine. "No it's not, depression is a medical disorder that effects all kinds of people from-"

"Oh, spare me Granger," he drawls, rolling his eyes.

This time, her anger is true and raw. "No, I will not _spare_ you, my mother suffered from depression when I was younger."

Even though Draco is still feeling off-balance, standing here in the Gryffindor's room, he can't help the sudden surge of self satisfaction that bubbles up from this confession. So Granger's family wasn't perfect after all!

From her place on the bed, Hermione realizes Draco Malfoy is genuinely smiling, if somewhat sadistically. But instead of letting her shock at seeing the first full smile on his face affect her, she concentrates on being angry at the fact that he thinks her being upset is amusing. At least anger is something familiar associated with Malfoy. Something this moment desperately needs.

"Get out!" she rages, pointing a finger at the door, "Get out of my room now! I don't want to see your ferret-y face any longer!" At the same time she firmly ignores the singsong-y voice in the back of her mind telling her that his face isn't in the least bit ferret-y.

"Whoa, whoa, Granger, don't have a Hippogriff," he says, grinning wickedly, finally back in his element. He walks backwards, his arms up, palms facing outward in surrender.

"Get out!!"

He sends her a final flash of an evil smirk before he slides around the edge of her door and is gone.

Hermione is left sitting in her bed, breathing heavily, not understanding why her hearts beating like a frightened bird in her chest. Another thought comes to her, just as quickly as the first. Maybe even an answer - as odd and unthinkable as it is. The whole time, Malfoy hadn't been wearing a shirt.

*~*~*~*

It is at least another week before Draco Malfoy realizes he has a problem. Or rather, two. The first being that, as much as he is unwilling to admit it out loud, he has become slightly addicted to - he winces at the thought - cutting himself.

The entire idea sounds vulgar and disdainfully savage, but to him what he is doing is anything but. After all, as far as polite society is concerned, Malfoys do not partake in vulgar and disdainful acts.

On the contrary, his self-mutilation has become a valuable and much needed escape. Not only from the world around him, but from himself also. When he's hurting himself there is no muddled confusion of meandering thoughts or the tiresome berating of inner monologues. There is only the shinning silver edge, the pounding of his heart in his ears and the sharp clarity of pain.

It's always the same, always beautifully simple, and most notably it makes him feel ironically safe. Safe because at times, though he tries his hardest to stop it, his thoughts can sometimes take control - things he wouldn't even dare mention out loud; they envelope him and he is somehow trapped, frozen, breathing hard, a red tinge at the edge of his vision closing in and things are much too fast, much too hot, almost burning. And he reaches for a blade, his hands shaking, fumbling with the edge, but within moments, with one slice, everything is clear, and calm and cool again.

The second of his problems stems from that fact that when he had looked up at Granger, the mublood, from his position sprawled on her bed and had watched her work diligently over him with such tenderness – tenderness saved for him no less - he had been alarmed to note the absence of loathing. Moreover, he had been hard pressed to feel anything remotely negative – hate, disgust, even annoyance.

The only thing Draco remembers feeling is curious. Why was Granger helping him? Did she not realize that if their roles were reversed, he would not be caught dead helping her. Would he? Never in his short seventeen years has he come across someone that exudes such kindness. Caring seems to ooze out of her every pore - a fact that had once sickened him, now only draws him in closer.

She is an anomaly, Draco decides, a puzzle, a challenge to figure out. And if there is anything Draco loves in the world, it is a good challenge. And for the first time in weeks, thinking of the brown-haired witch, he feels alive. It is becoming almost perverse, he muses, the amount of time he spends thinking of Granger. It seems she has crawled her way into his head and put up a permanent residence.

However, it is not only himself that appears to be distracted, he notes with some satisfaction, because Granger has been sending him odd, coy looks all week. He's caught her staring at him on more then one occasion and for some reason this makes him insanely pleased. He knows the whole situation is wrong, so wrong, but he can't seem to help himself. For some reason he _wants _Granger to be looking at him—him and no one else. He feels a sense of newfound jealousy every time Potter or Weasley sit next to her, are allowed to give her a hug or share in a joke and make her smile. He wonders if _he_ could make her smile. He wonders what would happen if he touched her.

This thought is on his mind almost all the time, even at some of the most inopportune moments, like when he's in the middle of class and can't stop staring at the back of her bushy head and Snape has seemed to notice. He must be insane, he concludes, broken - like the mirror which so cruelly showed him what he was. Yet he can't bring himself to care.

All of these thoughts are spinning circles in Draco's head as he makes his way through the halls of Hogwarts – alone, thank Merlin - towards the Great Hall. It's minutes to dinner, and he's rather hungry.

As he rounds the bend of the last corridor, he stops dead in his tracks. Hermione Granger is standing less then thirty feet down the hall, taking to one of the prefects from Ravenclaw. With one glance, the thought of dinner is wiped clean from his mind, his hunger replaced by a much deeper need.

Almost against his own will, Draco finds himself walking towards them. He's not sure what he wants from her, or what exactly he's doing, but these thoughts are not enough to stop his legs from moving him forward. Within moments, he is standing in front of the two girls.

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End of Third chapter.

A/N: So there ya go, something new. W00t w00t. The fourth chapter is a written out and everything too. You'll luuuuuv it. Guess what happens :):):)

Anyway, REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!!!


	4. Gotta spend some time, with me

A/N: As a reviewer mentioned, the title for this fic is kinda pointless (it's the title for the Smashing Pumpkins song I used for inspiration while writing the first chapter) so, I was wondering if you guys had any ideas? I might just change it.

The song for this is "The Moment I Said It" by Imogen Heap. ON WITH THE SHOW!!!!!

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Hermione Granger is walking to the Great Hall for dinner when Melinda Brokhart, a sixth year Ravenclaw prefect, taps her on the shoulder in the hall outside the charms classroom.

"Oh, I'm so glad I found you, I have a few questions about the patrolling schedule."

As the rather pretty girl launches into a tale of woe about boyfriends and dates and absolutely needing the following Wednesday night off, Hermione is making an honest effort at pretending to listen. It is not at all common for the Head Girl to neglect her duties or a student in need – no matter how frivolous the problem may be. However, tonight, Hermione's thoughts are a million miles away.

In all honesty, they have been for days. Finding Draco Malfoy in the bathroom that fateful night had been one thing. Finding him in her bed the next morning had been something completely different. In much the same way that he had slid out of her room the other day, he now seems to have slithered right into her thoughts, the nasty little bugger. And now, unable to remove him from her head, Hermione has fallen back on what she does best; using her brain. As efficiently as she works through a particularly difficult logarithm, she has been compartmentalize Draco Malfoy; faults against strengths, pros against cons, morals...or lack thereof. Yet not everything about him, Hermione finds, can be separated into good or bad.

The lines of his character seem to blur as completely as the shadows in the halls at night. It is no secret that manipulation, which isn't necessarily a bad trait, seems to come as naturally as breathing to him. How else has he upheld such a important social standing in Slytherin house? He is also in possession of a scathingly quick wit, yet appears intent on using it to hurt others. He's overtly charismatic, carrying an air of superiority, no matter what his internal struggles may be. Hermione briefly wonders if he is aware of his own presence.

In all her scrutiny, only one thing seems to stand out to her; under all of it, he must be suffering, battling with some sort of internal demons. What they are, she has yet to figure out. He is an anomaly, Hermione decides, a puzzle, a challenge to figure out. And if there is anything Hermione loves in the world, it is a good challenge.

Suddenly, as if her thoughts have formed themselves into reality, her eyes pick up on a head of blond hair – something they've been doing instinctively lately – and she watches as Draco Malfoy strides purposely towards her.

Hermione has a brief moment of panic as she remembers Melinda Brokhart standing beside her. It is not completely uncommon for Malfoy and herself to be seen talking to each other in the halls. After all, there are certain responsibilities and duties that come along with the title of Head Boy and Girl. But even then, any interaction is characteristically strained and short. They had much preferred leaving detailed notes for each other, leaving out the face to face interactions all together. Even having shared a common room for several months it is remarkable how little they'd seen of one another, albeit with much purposeful avoidance.

They haven't been this close to one another since the eventful night in her room, and the feelings that well up at the sight of the tall Slytherin standing in front of her are jarring. Hermione is undoubtedly a smart girl and she had certainly expected awkwardness, maybe even indifference. But the sheer magnitude of confusion and longing are enough to make her break out in a cold sweat.

Draco, for his part, has barely noticed the Ravenclaw girl. His piercing gray eyes are locked onto the smaller witch with a startling intensity.

"Hermione, I need to talk to you."

She doesn't miss the frantic, desperate undertone to his low voice, nor the fact that he has used her first name. Neither it seems, has Melinda. She is regarding the situation with extreme curiosity, her gaze shifting back and forth between them.

It is with much amazement when Draco Malfoy reaches out and takes her hand into his. It is surprisingly hot, almost burning. And before she can resist - though she isn't sure she ever intended to - he is pulling her off down the hallway.

She sends one futile glance over her shoulder at Melinda and then turns to look up at the young man dragging her down the hall.

"Malfoy, where are we going?"

As they turn a corner, he glances briefly down at her. "I don't know."

They walk in silence for several minutes, the only sound being the sharp _tap tap_ of their shoes echoing off the stone hallways. About halfway to nowhere, Draco stops abruptly and pulls her to the left where there is a small alcove, concealed behind a red velvet drape.

And all of a sudden his lips are against hers and they are hungry and demanding and she is unprepared for the warmth and feeling his actions evoke in her.

More from a natural instinct then an understanding of exactly what she's doing, her lips start to move against his. Much like his earlier words, his lips are almost desperate against hers and his hands are caressing her neck and shoulders and getting lost in her hair. It couldn't be more torrid if they were in an abandoned classroom or - heaven forbid - a broom closet.

Draco breaks away from her for some much needed air and she is surprised by the sudden feeling of loss; like part of her has been painfully ripped away. She has an urge to reach up and touch her tingling lips but before she can regain her bearings his burning lips return to her skin and he is doing something to her neck with his tongue that is entirely too pleasant. Despite herself, Hermione can't help but moan lightly in response.

Draco takes this as encouragement and wraps an arm around the small of her back, pulling her closer. The world seems to blur around them into nothing but feelings, caresses, lips and heat. It occurs to Hermione that it's almost as if he can't quite get enough of her; as he kisses down her neck and pulls her closer against his frame still. Her cheeks redden at the thought, though in the dark corner of the alcove she's doubtful that they are visible at all

With a gasp for air, they simultaneously break away from one another. The air seems to flow around them with a strange kind of energy and she looks up to see that he is staring intently at her. There are so many emotions playing in his gray eyes; she recognizes the desire, the passion, and also a strong veil of confusion but there are others, buried so much deeper that she can't even begin to decipher them.

On a whim, she stands on her very tiptoes - he is at least a head taller then her - and leans slowly forward and watches him watching her. Ever so slowly, meeting his eyes and waiting for any and all emotions that may pass through them - wanting to see what his reaction will be - she closes the last few inches between them and touches her lips to his. It's only the barest of touches and then Hermione leans back on her heals.

She looks up into his face and into his lost gray eyes and as if, without words, is asking the question _"so, what now?"_ And in response he swoops down and catches her lips with his again. It is as much of answer to her question as anything else.

This time his kisses are slow and sensual as if he is finally reassured that she is fully aware of the fact that this is Draco Malfoy she is kissing, and will not frantically push him away. He dips his tongue into her mouth and she responds in turn, running her own along his bottom lip.

She doesn't protest as he unbuttons her school robes and then her blouse, running his hands across the soft skin of her stomach and down her hips, then back up again to brush the underside of her uncharacteristically lacy bra.

Feeling slightly like he has the upper hand, Hermione summons her Gryffindor nature and bravely makes her own advances. Starting at his waist she slowly runs her small hands up under his shirt and across his chest and shoulders, exhilarating in the feeling of the hard ridges beneath her fingers. With a raged exhale of breath, Draco pulls back from her for a moment and tugs his shirt over his head, allowing her more access to his skin. As she reaches out to touch his chest, he shivers under her touch and she suddenly becomes self-conscious.

"Should I stop?" she asks, worried that she's doing something wrong.

"God, no...Don't ever stop," he grounds out, his voice low and husky in her ear. He runs his hands down her back and hips, letting them come to rest when he firmly cups her rear. With a gasp of surprise, he lifts her off the ground, forcing her to wrap her legs around his hips. Pressed up against him so intimately she is suddenly acutely aware of just how aroused he is.

With this realization comes another; she is completely unprepared for this. Though her body is reacting violently to his touch, even more so as he lightly nips at her collarbone, her mind is a tangle of fears and trepidation.

"Malfoy," she says, but it comes out as more of a low moan as she arches up when he grinds his pelvis into her own. " pl-please...put me down."

For several seconds, he doesn't seem to have heard her, but as her words finally sink in, he stops and pulls back. He lowers her, surprisingly gently and she slides down between the wall and his chest, until her feet lightly touch the floor.

Seconds later, Draco has leaned forward, placing a hand on either side of her head against the cold stone walls, successfully trapping her between his pale arms without actually touching her. He sighs, long and loud and looks down at her through his silver bangs, his face inches from her own. An odd moment of silence passes between them, and then simply unable to stop such an ingrown habit, Draco smirks. And this time, it boils Hermione's blood for an entirely different reason.

She's mulling over her decision to be put down when his voice breaks through her foggy state of mind. "You know, you could call me Draco, if you'd like."

She's never seen someone smile so _suggestively_, and her cheeks instantly flame brightly. She turns her gaze to the side self-consciously, unable to meet his eyes.

However, only then does she notice the inside of his forearm, placed so closely to her face. It is a sickly collage of healing cuts and scars, bright marks of varying shades of red and white.

She gasps quietly and reaches out to pull his arm down, into her grasp. She holds it lightly and he doesn't react as the inspects the damage, running her small fingers slowly over the crisscrossing scars, as if memorizing their path. Draco closes his eyes and sighs, loosing himself momentarily in the gentle caresses.

"I can't get rid of them," he says quietly after several minutes of silence," I don't know any healing spells."

Though the statement is simple, they both know there is a hidden darkness behind the words, something left unsaid; _I've only learned dark magic_. But the fragile atmosphere they have made for themselves won't allow such words to be spoken out loud.

"I wish you would stop," she whispers, and he barely hears her, though he is only inches from her lips.

It isn't condescending or harsh; just a plead. Somehow the world outside of the alcove seems long gone. In this moment, they live in a peaceful unity where petty prejudices about blood and purity seem to be a thing of the past. There is no fear of pain, or the chastise of a parent, or the impending danger of the Dark Lord. It is a balance so fragile that Draco dare not move in fear of breaking it. Or so he tells himself, because in a small part of his mind he wonders if his reluctance to move might have less to do with fear and just a little more to do with the warm feeling in his chest and the light floral sent coming from the bushy head of the girl in his arms.

But like the saying goes, all good things must come to an end, and several minutes later he's watching as Hermione bustles around the alcove collecting her fallen clothing. He sighs quietly, reaching down to grab his shirt and slides it easily over his head. He straightens to watch Hermione as she struggles with the buttons of her blouse. Her hands are shaking badly, and this time Draco would wager it's not from fear or anger.

He moves forward and brushes her hands gently away, swiftly pushing the rest of the buttons through their small holes, his knuckles lightly brushing the swell of her breasts. With amusement, he notes that this causes her to blush.

She leans down to pick up her cloak from the floor and turns, pushing the drape back. She glances right, then left, as if checking the road for traffic before moving to step forward from their hide-y-hole.

With a small jolt of surprise, she feels as Malfoy causally grabs ahold of her hand and slides his fingers through her own. She turns to gaze up at him in shock at such a blatantly affectionate gesture and he looks down at her with a raised eyebrow, as if daring her to question his actions.

So, Hermione decides she won't. In unison they step forward, making their way in silence, back towards the dinning hall.

It is Draco who breaks the silence first.

"You don't passionately snog in alcoves with any other boys do you?" he asks.

"Oh, " Hermione's eyes widen in embarrassment, "Oh! Of course I don't! This is the - uh... first time."

"Splendid," he quips and his hand seems to tighten around hers almost possessively, "I was hoping you didn't and I'd like that it stayed that way."

They laps back into into a strangely comfortable silence and nothing else is said on the matter, but Draco's meaning is still quite clear. Hermione tries to picture him saying the words _"Granger, will you go out with me?"_ or perhaps _"Hermione, be my girlfriend?"_ and almost giggles at the thought. It seems entirely un-Dracolike.

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End of fifth chapter

A/N: I'm sorry about the end. This part; "So she doesn't and in unison they step forward, making their way, in silence, to god knows where, possibly for some more tonsil hockey." Yea, that's just me being up at 3 in the morning and getting WAY too restless and trying to get this chapter OVERWITH. Oh, and the "hide-y-hole" LOL that was also a burst of stupidness. I'm definitely going to be fixing those areas up at a later date, I am just way to tired and lazy right now. Which is why they're there in the first place :P I also found the beginning rather stupid and hard to write with all the changing of tenses!! This present tense thinking is starting to drive me nuts! ARG anyway, REVIEW!! PLEASEE!!!!

A/N EDIT: So I changed some of the stupid crap, but I kept hide-y-hole cause it makes me giggle. REVIEW PLEASE.


	5. I think you'll find, love

A/N: Fifth chapter. W00t. So, somebody mentioned this is moving along rather quickly, and I must agree. I'm not going to lie, I started writing this fic on Adultfanfiction and there is definitely a different vibe over there. I find that the sexual encounters come around in the fics much sooner because everyone is over eighteen and looking for mature interactions (ha). And that applies to this chapter. It's rated M for a reason.

Anyway, enjoy, this is my favorite chapter so far. AND MUWAH MUWAH MUWAH TOO ALL WHO REVIEW. SO NICE.

Oh, oh!! The song for this chapter is "Somewhere a clock is ticking" by Snow Patrol.

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It's Friday, the last period of the day – charms – and Draco sighs tiredly, dipping the metal point of his quill into the small pot of ink. He's jotting down notes with his favorite quill – a small dark peacock feather that was a gift from his mother - his dark charcoal sweater pushed up around his elbows.

Although quiet and controlled on the outside, his mind is a blur of thoughts and images flashing by in quick succession. Only yesterday, he'd been snogging Granger in a dark alcove of Hogwarts. For the fiftieth time, as if on never ending repeat, he runs the conversation over again in his mind. They'd spoken so few words, yet it had meant so much.

_They had just reached the door of the Great Hall when Hermione stopped abruptly and pulled her hand from his. He had forgotten that he'd been holding it the whole time. Thankfully, they hadn't seen anyone else in the halls – everyone must have already been at dinner._

_"I--"_

_"You--"_

_They stopped and looked at each other awkwardly, with a hint of amusement._

_She sighed. "This is never going to work, you know."_

_Something inside of him tensed. "You don't know that." Did she not understand how much it had already cost him to be with her? His sanity, for one thing._

_But he understood where she was coming from. How could he not? If his father caught wind of him and not just 'a' mudblood, but 'the' mudblood – he didn't even want to think about what would happen. He nodded towards the door. "You better go, before someone sees you."_

_She'd smiled at him then, almost gently and moved through the door to join her friends._

Abruptly, Draco is snapped out of his daydreams when Pansy shrieks, albeit quietly for her.

"Ew, Draco, what the hell happened!" She's pointing disgustingly at his forearm where a half a dozen cuts are visible below his rolled up sleeves. He cringes at the tone of her voice. Honestly, they did not look that bad. Well, okay, maybe a few are infected.

He rapidly pulls his sleeves back down and turns to glare at her. "Nothing. I just got a little banged up at Quidditch practice."

Pansy eyes him petulantly at his curt response, but it is apparently a good enough excuse because she turns in her seat to face the front once more. Ever cautious, Draco scans the classroom with his peripheral vision, wondering if anyone has noticed the exchange between them. His gray eyes flick to the right, behind Pansy's chair and are met with a pair of vivid hazel orbs. Blaise Zabini is staring at him.

He doesn't meet the other boys gaze, and instead turns his head to concentrate on Professor Flitwick at the front. Nevertheless, the small hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle with the distinct feeling of being watched.

Later, when class has been adjourned, Draco makes his way from the room, only to have the dark haired fellow Slytherin fall in to step beside him. He should have expected this. Though Draco has been acting rather anti-social lately, Blaise and he had once been rather close, in Slytherin standards. And though they are a play on contrasts - Draco's blond against Blaise' black – they are surprisingly similar, sharing many common interests. Quidditch, for one. Blaise is a talented player on the Slytherin team. Another; overbearing parents and the teachings of the Dark Lord.

As they walk down the hall, Draco notices a sixth year smiling flirtatiously at him – she must be the confident type. He doesn't even spare her a look, much less smirk, something he would have enjoyed doing before.

"So.. Draco," Blaise asks, ruining the lovely absence of chatter. "How's it going lately? We haven't really been keeping up much, have we?"

Draco grunts noncommittally and watches a third year squeak and skitter out of his path, books clutched to her chest.

"How's your Mum doing?" Blaise tries again.

Draco has to stop a snort of laughter. "Great"

"And your Dad?"

"Grand."

The dark haired wizard is looking rather frustrated by now and Draco rolls his eyes. Enough of this evasive questioning.

"Spit it out, Zabini, what do you want?"

Blaise looks around rather nervously before answering."Well... I couldn't help over hearing Pansy earlier. You know, I don't remember you getting hurt at practice." He glances briefly down at Draco's right arm.

They continue walking and the silence drags on between them, but Draco waits patiently. He knows Blaise isn't done yet and sure enough, seconds later, he's talking again. "Draco, if there's something wrong..."

"Shut it, Blaise. I'm fine," he snaps. Being interrogated by the dark haired boy is one of the last items on the list of things Draco wants right now. Where did he get off anyway? Thinking he could ask him about his parents. Although, speaking of things he wanted right now... Draco's eyes catch a head of familiar brown hair bobbing down the hallway ahead of him, just as Blaise is saying something else.

Draco cuts him off mid sentence. "Look, I gotta go." He nods his head in Grangers direction through the crowd. "Head duties."

Surprisingly, Blaise looks slightly upset. "Yeah, talk to you later, I guess."

He doesn't wait any longer and darts forward, weaving through the hallway of students to catch up with the head of bushy brown hair.

"Granger," he calls, when he's within ear shot. Hermione, and the girl who has been walking with her, turn around, and oddly enough, it's Melinda Brokehart beside her again. "I need to talk to you for a moment. Head stuff."

He doesn't miss the rather sly, enlightened look that Melinda is giving them.

On the other hand, Hermione is regarding him with a rather incredulous expression but she excuses herself quickly with a hasty _'see you later' _to the other girl. She follows him down a corridor, cutting away from the main crowd of students and then through the door of an empty classroom.

And before she can ask him what in Merlin's name he thinks he's doing, he's spun around and has her pressed firmly up against the wooden door they've just walked through.

Hermione inhales sharply and her nose is filled with a familiar, wonderful, lovely boy smell, and her head swims dangerously.

Draco still hasn't moved.

"Hi," he says and smirks down at her.

"What are--" she starts, but is cut off as Draco presses his lips against hers.

With one kiss, it's like a fire has been ignited between them and she moans quietly, bringing her arms up to twine around his neck, pushing up against him the way a sunflower reaches for the sun. This time, she's the one who can't seem to get enough.

Yet it could be a tie because he's moaning into her mouth and she can feel his heart beating rapidly in sync with her own. He reaches down and grabs a hold of her thigh, hooking it up around his hip, so he can press himself harder against her core. She throws her head back against the wood and moans wantonly, the fire pooling rapidly between her thighs. Draco takes advantage of the access to her throat and neck and kisses and nips his way down, before sucking gently, leaving a small burgundy mark on her collarbone.

He's panting heavily as he leans back to inspect his work but groans loudly when Hermione grinds herself against his already hardening erection. He pushes back against her and leans down to nip her neck gently.

"Bloody hell, Granger," he mutters huskily, and she looks up at him through dazed, hooded eyes.

They meet half way for the next kiss, and he moans when he feels her tongue against his own. Her small hands are moving up under his shirt again, scratching down his back as he grinds his aching hardness against her. He's been thinking about this all day. Wondering just how far she's willing to go.

Testing the waters, he brings a hand down and then trails it up her thighs, until it's under her pretty little Gryffindor skirt. He brushes his fingers against the soft mound of the 'v' between her legs, feeling the dampness that has soaked through her knickers. He licks his suddenly dry lips as she moans, pushing harder against his hand. If that isn't encouragement, Draco doesn't know what is.

He rubs her from the outside of her knickers a bit before she's panting and begging him to do more. What she's asking for, he highly doubts she knows herself. Smiling, he pushes her underwear to the side with his thumb, slowly circling her entrance with his index finger. She pushes against his hand again, unconsciously persuading him to enter her. So he obliges, slowly slipping his finger between her slick folds. She groans loudly, throwing her head back against the door again as he slowly pumps in and out of her. She's mumbling incoherently, yet he catches his name passing over her lips several times and grins. He leans forward and catches her lips for another kiss as he slides a second finger into her

Once he's added the second digit, curling them up inside of her to find her sweet spot, he realizes just how tight she is. He wonders briefly if she's had sex before, but if how tight her cunt is gripping his fingers is any indication, he's guessing not.

She's bucking against his hand, building to her release, her small hands clenched into tight fists against the door, but he's not done with her yet.

He rapidly pulls his fingers from her wet, throbbing depths and Hermione groans at the loss of contact. Yet seconds later he's dropped to his knees in front of her. In one swift movement he pulls her damp knickers down to her knees and pushes his face in between her thighs, inhaling the scent of her arousal. At the first touch of his tongue against her swollen sex, she inhales sharply, her hand coming to grasp his hair.

"Shhh, pet, trust me," he whisper gently and leans forward to lick her slowly. He feels, more then sees, her relax.

He swirls his tongue around her clit for the first time and then sucks on it gently, causing her to jerk and whimper. But her hand is running lightly through his hair so he continues on, experimenting with her reactions, finding out what makes her gasp, moan, and sigh. This is undoubtedly his favorite part. He laves his tongue from the bottom of her wet, swollen lips to the top, paying special attention to the nub of nerves found there. He's eating her out, loving the taste of her, the smell, and even kneeling in front of her his cock is throbbing painfully in his trousers, jerking in response to her sighs of pleasure.

It is only several minutes before she's on the cusp of climax once again, and as her breathing becomes erratic, and her knees start to shake, he plunges his fingers back in to her, pumping quickly in and out. She's whispering his name over and over, and as he sucks on her clit for the last time, he feels her walls clamp around his fingers before they rapidly burst into spasm. She cries out as she climaxes and Draco continues to lick her gently as she rides it out. With a final sigh, her legs give out underneath her, and she slides slowly down the door to join Draco on the floor.

She looks at him with cloudy, satisfied eyes and smiles stupidly. "Bloody hell yourself, Malfoy."

He can't help but return her smile and impulsively he leans forward on his hands and kisses her full on the mouth. She gives out a muffled sound of protest – probably something to do with the taste of herself on his lips – but moments later she's melted into him once again.

She's practically in his lap when she pulls back a bit to look at him quizzically. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with the blond git?"

It was meant to be light and teasing but Draco tenses against her and pulls back, sobering quickly.

The look in his eyes is unreadable.

"I don't know," he says and runs a shaky hand through his hair, "I don't know who I am anymore. I'm nobody."

"Yes you are. You're Draco Malfoy," she says and smiles crookedly.

He looks down at her through his bangs and though they both know her statement is meaningless he can't help but crack a small smile himself, and somehow, someway, he feels a little better.

Later, when they're leaving the room, gathering a vestige of proper behavior around themselves, Hermione looks at him strangely.

"Did I hear you call me pet?"

He grins at her. "Maybe"

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End of Chapter 5

A/N: So, they aren't technically "out" as a couple, but how could they be? I would imagine lots of beatings. Anyway, the sexy part wasn't originally in the plan but I got all inspired last night – okay, horny - and had to write it out. And I think it actually progressed the story well. Cause I do want them going at it pretty soon. (most likely because I just like writing raunchy sex scenes when he just grabs her and takes her up against a wall) Oooooo, can't wait!

Review? Pleeease?? And I mean constructive here, if you have the time or inclination. Cause I really don't have much of an idea of the quality of my writing. I've never shared ANYTHING I've written with someone I know personally. Ever. Eep. Also, I'm just a big review whore.


	6. I will possess your heart

A/N: This ones a gooder', hope you like it. It's extra long, just for you :) And in response to RentMyLove, no, I don't have a beta. Just spellcheck, lol.

The song shall be...Snow Patrol - In my arms.

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It is another week before Draco Malfoy realizes he has another problem.

Although, in all truthfulness, he's seen it coming for quite some time now. And when he thinks about it hard enough, he is sure he can even pin point the exact moment it had happened; Hermione had been wrapped in his arms, her chest heaving, cheeks flushed, clothes askew, bushy brown hair flying everywhere, eyes alight with passion and he'd suddenly realized just how strikingly similar she looked to when he got her seethingly angry.

But the problem is, this new reaction he causes in her, this one is somehow oh-so-much better. And in the same way that he became slightly obsessed with making her enraged and upset, Draco now longs to get this new, much more satisfying reaction out of her.

He can't seem to get enough of her. Any excuse for a meager touch, a brush of his hand against her own. But by far, the weekday hours are the worst. A type of torture; having to sit through class without looking at her, forcing himself not to make eye contact during meals and having to continue the charade of being a foul-mouth git to her, Potty and Weasel – not that he especially minds making fun of the two nitwits. Staying away from Hermione Granger seems entirely impossible, so he doesn't.

It is also slightly disconcerting how a sort of relationship - one that would have previously been seen as rather insane and impossible - could develop so quickly between them and ultimately become routine and expected.

He's learned that Hermione still covers her mouth self-consciously with a hand when she laughs, though her teeth were now straight and white, having been cured of their slight incline to the beaver-side by Madame Pomfrey years before. She learns that he has a rather endearing habit of running his hand through his hair when he is upset or nervous - something that he'd never admit to being

Surprisingly, they get along extremely well. Hermione feels like she has finally found someone on equal footing as her. Someone whom she can go to with questions about homework and will even have a helpful and enlightening answer for her. Someone who is just as eager, and able, to debate a good portion of the topics she is passionate about. Not that they can talk about everything. A few things – such as Draco's life at home and the Dark Lord, or Harry and Ron – still seem off limits, if only for the fact that it seems to rile both of them up to such extremes that they will undoubtedly start yelling at each other.

Because yell they certainly do. It is impossible to think that two people who had been nothing short of enemies could come together in perfect harmony, without any disagreement. The original animosity had come from somewhere. Yet, as much as they fight, the anger seems to go hand in hand with the source of their passion; because that is how most of the fighting ends – with heated snogging.

It is impossible to ignore the newfound emotions and connection that has awakened between them. Never before has Hermione known such passion - even with the kisses between her and Ron in the brief period they went out during 6th year or the shy kisses she had shared with Victor Krum once upon a time when she fancied herself in love with him. Albeit, none of that constitutes as much experience, but she still feels as though this time it is somehow different; more intense. And she is sure that Draco must feel the same thing - the same connection - if the chaos of conflicting emotions that constantly swirl in the depths of his eyes are any indication.

Presently, as has become a habitual activity, the young Gryffindor and Slytherin are studying Arithmancy on the Head common room couch – a rather large, three cushioned, burgundy monstrosity placed in front of the fireplace. Though a commonplace occurrence – the studying, that is - today they have an unusual amount of free time. Between classes, head duties, and friends – at least on Hermione's part – and Quidditch – on Draco's part, they have found that, accumulatively, there is very little time to be spent alone. Even now when they are not ignoring each other, and rather, making an effort.

Their parchment and elegantly bound books are spread across the couch half-haphazardly, pillows pooled to one side. Hermione sits in a small circular nest of books, cross-legged and sideways, facing the blond young man. She scene has a comforting familiarity to it. Yet oddly enough, she has one of his pale arms pulled forward and perched precariously on her knee. Her fingers dance lightly over his upturned forearm, tracing the scars and blue veins visible through his translucent skin, and inexplicably, Draco doesn't seem to notice. His head is tilted down, reading a passage of text.

"Didn't you ever worry I would tell someone?"

Her voice is light and feminine, cutting through the silence of the room like a bell. Draco looks up at her, gray eyes meeting her gaze. "Hm?"

"Didn't you worry I would tell someone about you hurting yourself? A professor maybe?" she repeats.

Draco sits up a bit straighter and unconsciously pulls his arm back and she has a brief pang of loss. It had been oddly comforting, having the weight of it in her grasp, something like holding a hand.

He's contemplating her question characteristically slowly. "No, not really," he says, after a moment, "I don't think I ever really thought about it. You have this air about you, though, like you can solve anything, that you don't need anyones help. I figured you probably thought you could handle it alone, and didn't need to get anyone else involved.

Hermione looks mildly surprised with his answer. "I see."

His eyes fall back down to his book, assuming the questions are done, but her voice rings out again.

"Why do you do it to yourself?"

Draco winces inwardly at the question. He has no urge to explain to her why he does what he does, but after a brief glance up at her face and the expression of worry and curiosity, something inside of him breaks. He sighs, sets his book aside and begrudgingly obeys her questioning eyes.

"Simply living isn't enough," Draco tries to explain, in the simplest terms he can think of, " you have to have something to live for." He shrugs uselessly, "I don't."

For one brief moment, Hermione has the absurd and foreign urge to say _"live for me"_ but the words die on her lips. It is an absurd thought, after all. And after realizing that she is sitting there with her mouth parted, ready to talk, she says instead "You must have something!"

"I don't," Draco says flatly, "Believe me, Granger."

But she continues to protest. "Come on Draco, everyone has something. What about your friends, or your grades even? I know part of me lives for my grades. And there's things like Quidditch... and ... and...your family!"

After she says this last part she realizes her mistake. One look at the expression on Draco's face shows that many of the rumors around Hogwarts that his relationship with his family is less then peachy are indeed true. She looks down at her lap embarrassed and for a reason she can't explain, ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"Yes, as you should be," is his cold reply.

A tense silence creeps in between them as nothing else is said. Or maybe it is the fact that they are both realizing the oddity of their lives that has become the mundane. Either way, it is several agonizing minutes before, with a small amount of surprise, Malfoy reaches out and touches her hand.

"Actually, I'm sorry, Hermione," he says, the foreign words formed awkwardly in his mouth. "I'm still trying to learn."

At her confused look, he elaborates. "All this decent human being stuff, it's still a bit confusing."

Hermione smiles indulgently at his effort to lighten the mood, and it is enough to erase the earlier words. They each return to their studies, any awkwardness forgotten and another silence settles upon them. Hermione is jotting down an equation on her parchment when she feels something brush against her cheek. It takes a heartbeat to realize that Draco is tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She looks up at him, still semi-hidden behind the curtain of brown curls.

"You have so much hair," he says, as if answering a question, "I couldn't see your face."

As if to prove his point he reaches forward and wraps a silky brown strand around his finger, flicking the end. He proceeds to twirl a smaller piece between his thumb and forefinger, regarding her with a rather pensive look. She feels herself heating in a blush under his gaze and then he reaches up, a lightly curved strand of hair held between his fingers, and positions it above her upper lip.

He chuckles. "Nice mustache, pet."

She frowns and swats his hand away playfully, and he lets go of her hair, laughing at his own amusing antics.

He's still laughing when he grabs a hold of her shoulders and pulls her forward, leaning backwards until he falls down onto the couch. She topples forward onto his chest, pinning him underneath her and looks down to meet his cheeky grin.

"Hermione, you naughty girl," he purrs.

"You're ridiculous," she says, and is in the process of rolling her eyes when he tips his head up and captures her lips in a kiss.

She melts into him easily and feels his hands, which are still curled around her shoulders, tighten their hold at her reaction – delightfully so. A quick procession of hard thumps signals that their books have fallen off the couch. _Oops._ Neither are paying much attention, though. Their world has been shrunken down to the simple feelings of lips and heat, of tongues curling and sweeping around one another.

His hands finally move, brushing down over her shoulders to the hem of her knitted sweater, caressing her sides softly before pulling it up. She raises her arms to help, and he pulls it over her head, throwing it carelessly onto the floor. She sits up to straddle him and shivers, clad only in her black bra, and Draco can't help but smirk, pulling her back down towards him. As they kiss passionately, his skilled hands run over the swell of a breast, squeezing lightly and then he's reaching around her to undo the clasp. The bra falls away easily, and he cups her breasts eagerly, palming them lightly as she mews above him. They really are quite magnificent breasts; lighter then her natural skin tone, with small coral colored buds. Big enough to fill his palm, but not disproportionate to her body size.

His shirt being tugged over his head brings him out of his lustful musings, and he leans forward a bit, allowing her to pull if off him. She seems pleased with the access to his skin as her hands are running over his chest and shoulders, a hungry look in her eye. She leans down to kiss and suck his neck and he groans, the feelings shooting straight to his groin. He bucks his hips up against hers, and her wandering nails start to scratch. She's straddling him, after all, wearing only a skirt, which doesn't leave much to the imagination between her knickers and his hardening member.

He palms her right breast and pulls the others nipple into his mouth, sucking on it gently. She moans appreciatively and, whether consciously or not, starts to rock her self back and forth against him, grinding against the straining bulge in his trousers. He groans loudly, his eyes fluttering at the sensation.

She's moaning quietly above him, grinding herself against his throbbing cock and he doesn't know how much more of it he can take; all this dry humping is driving him insane. His hands are all over her at once, cupping a breast, running up her thighs, fisting in her hair. He grabs her ass with both hands and thrusts himself against her harder, showing her just how rough it would be. Oh, how he longs to fuck her little Gryffindor brains out. But at the same time, he's hoping that his lack of tenderness will somehow push her away – show her that he is not someone she should be having sex with. Unfortunately, if her gasps and sighs are any indication, she seems to be enjoying it. He's in a hazy world of lust when her words bring him crashing back down to earth.

"I want you to be my first," she whispers breathlessly in his ear.

_Shit._ Draco tenses and stills underneath her, becoming suddenly, irrationally angry. An unconventional reaction to be sure, yet this is exactly what he had feared; she has the absurd idea that giving away her virginity to him is something she wants. The problem, in his mind, is that he doesn't deserve such a precious gift. Not someone as fucked up, dirty, hateful, malicious—the list could go on forever – as him. It would be a waste to give it away to someone so undeserving. She would undoubtedly regret it.

"You don't know what you're asking," he mutters through clenched teeth.

The confusion and hurt flitting across her pretty face is heart-wrenchingly obvious. But, like her true Gryffindor nature, she is quick to protest. "Of course I know what I'm asking, I'm not a complete prude, you know."

At her words, he almost feels like laughing. She hadn't understood what he'd meant at all. She'd misunderstood his meaning completely, and suddenly her indignation seems justified—he hadn't meant to insult her sexuality. Not at all. In reality, he'd meant something quite the opposite.

Hermione begins shifting her weight, moving off of him and Draco has a brief pang of loss before quickly reminding himself that this is the way it should be. At least, this is what he thinks before he realizes that Hermione is not getting up, only moving downwards to pull at his belt buckle.

As the leather slides from the clasp, she looks up at him with a devious glint in her eye and he knows exactly what she's doing; she's trying to prove a point.

Her small hands move to the waistband of his boxers and he opens his mouth to tell her no, but hisses through his teeth as she pulls and his still hard member springs free from its confines, hitting the cold air of the common room.

The look in her eye is excitement, lust and apprehension all mixed into one. He highly doubts she's seen a dick before, much less a large pulsing erection. Draco can't deny that, at this moment, he's thoroughly enjoying himself. After all, he is a warm blooded young man, and there is only so much resistance one can put up.

Especially when she reaches out curiously, and wipes off the bead of precum weeping from the tip of his rock hard shaft. It pulses under her touch and her eyes widen. Then, as if his wildest fantasies have come true, she's lowering her head. Draco groans loudly as her lips circle the head of his cock, sucking gently. No fucking way. Only in his wildest dreams has he imagined this, yet here he lies, his throbbing cock pressed into her hot, wet mouth. And she's looking up at him with her big doe eyes, watching his reactions. He can't help but moan, his hips jerking uselessly. As she experiments with her newfound sexual power, her head starting to bob slowly along his length, he reaches down to tangle a hand in her hair.

"Yeahhh," he sighs, panting, as she moves faster, "Like that."

She hums contentedly around his length and he groans at the vibrations it causes. Within minutes, he can't hold off much longer; the throbbing and pulsing is building to an intolerable level with the feelings of her mouth sucking, licking, and moving up and down around him. She's working him tighter and tighter and he is no longer aware of the instinctual way his hips buck or the sounds of pleasure he makes. Giving in to the sensations, he stops breathing completely as he dangles over the precipice of climax, stars dancing behind his eyes. Suddenly, with a cry, he tips over the edge and he's panting and moaning as waves of his warm seed are being pumped out of him.

Hermione lets out a small squeak of surprise as he cums, getting a salty mouthful for all her efforts. She removes her lips from his cock with an audible 'pop' and watches his cum spray against her hand and his pelvis.

As Draco's breathing returns to normal and he floats languidly back to earth, Hermione smiles at him triumphantly. "Ha! Told you so!"

He looks down at the mess on his chest and quirks an eyebrow. "Thanks."

However, the afterglow is not to be enjoyed because seconds later there is a sharp, loud knock on the common room door. Draco looks down at his watch in alarm. "Shit! It's probably Blaise!"

At Hermione's confused look, he blurts, "I have Quidditch practice," and jumps from the couch.

"Quick, quick, put on your sweater." He scoops it from the floor and hands it to her, and at the same time pulls his own over his head. Too late he remembers the sticky mess on his chest. He curses under his breath but there's no time, and he moves towards the door, buckling his pants at the same time.

He flings their Head common room door open and comes face to face with exactly who he had expected; a smirking Blaise Zabini.

Blaise raises an eyebrow at Draco's flustered appearance and then leans around the blond man's shoulder to look farther into the common room. His eyebrows rise even higher into his hairline.

Draco knows exactly what he's looking at; the image is still floating in his mind, teasing him, even now. It's the lovely image of Hermione Granger, looking just as flustered as he—her lips swollen from kisses, sweater on backwards, bushy hair flying every which way, a dazed look on her face. A sharp stab of possessiveness causes him to grab Blaise by the shoulder and turn him around. "Come on, let's go."

As they make their way down the hall, Blaise looks at him with amusement.

"Draco, why the hell is your shirt stuck to you?"

"Er--"

* * *

End of sixth chapter.

A/N: Is it just me, or does anyone else find it intensely funny to make a boy cum on himself? Lol. I sure do. And I think Draco deserved a little action. Hope you liked it. Are my sex scenes to wordy?? Like, to annoyingly drawn out? I never really know how much or little I should be describing. As I writer, I tend to over detail, I think. Whatever.

Review on your way out??!??


	7. You won't get better until you're worse

A/N: Sorry about the longer time between updates....I was at a music festival allllll week/weekend.

Anyway, if your still reading this, KUDOS! Thanks for sticking with me! I love love love all the grand reviews! They keep me going!

P.S. The songs for this one's "Don't confess" by Tegan and Sara

* * *

Draco Malfoy has changed. Changed so abruptly in fact that Hermione can not pinpoint exactly when it has happened or how. Or maybe he hasn't changed at all. Maybe this charming, thoughtful, and affectionate Malfoy has been there all along, and she had simply never taken the time to find him.

More importantly, she doesn't know when he has become such a integral part of her life. Thinking back, she's not even sure why she had let him kiss her so brazenly in the first place. Yet, somehow, she'd seen the look in his eye, heard the tone of his voice and had known, inexplicably, that it was right. She can even go as far as to say that she had wanted it. That she had been thinking about him for days – and not only about his strange self-mutilating behavior and all the blood, but also, embarrassingly, about the definition in his arms and the broadness of his shoulders, the soft silver strands of his hair and the frustrating way they fall over his eyes...

She knows he still cuts himself, that much is obvious. She sees the marks marring his arms when he forgets himself and rolls up a sleeve, or shivers under her touch without a shirt. This fact alone shows that being with her hasn't been enough to change him any more than outwardly; superficially. The only amendable thing is that the cutting seems to be getting better; lighter, less frequent.

Hermione worries that she has fallen prey to the feminine ideal so casually rooted in every girls childhood; in the stories of Beauty and the Beast, and The Little Mermaid – that if she just tries hard enough, somehow, she can change him. That she can save him from himself.

Nevertheless, she must face the truth; he is still the son of a Death Eater, and most likely a follower of Voldemort. That alone means one thing; they stand for many directly contrasting ideals. They are nothing short of being from two different worlds. From opposite sides of a bloody _war_.

Hermione feels like she's watching the world go by from behind rose tinted glasses, yet in the back of her mind she doesn't know how much longer they can go on like this – purposefully ignoring talking about anything important, tip-toeing around the topics that cause any sort of anxiety. This thought brings a horrible aching to her chest because though she hasn't heard him use the word 'mudblood' in weeks, she often wonders about his stance on blood purity. Has being with her changed his views? Or is she the only muggleborn exempt from his prejudice? Or worse still; can it be that in some part of his mind it still disgusts him to touch her?

That thought is almost too much, and she purposefully ignores any mussing on the topic, like she has so often done before. And so it goes. She's slowly realizing that their time together has been nothing more then glossed over with a shinny gold film of ignorance; of playful banter and lust, and knowing this, she now finds is impossible to turn a blind eye to the darkness lurking under the surface.

But when he walks into the Head common room after rounds and smiles at her, she suddenly feels that maybe all of that doesn't matter. Because Draco Malfoy is smiling at her. And she likes it.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Hermione shuffles the stack of papers in her hands for the third time, tapping them lightly against the mahogany desk in front of her. Quietly clearing her throat, she looks back up at thirty or so students in front of her; the assembled group of Hogwarts Prefects.

"Well, that about covers everything." Her eyes scan the group before moving pointedly to the blond seated at her side. "Malfoy? Do you have anything to add?"

"Nope," he says, twirling a pencil carelessly in his fingers. His long legs are propped unceremoniously on top of the desk and Hermione has to stop herself from rolling her eyes in exasperation. Honestly, can he not take the meetings a little more seriously?

To her pleasure, he seems to take notice of her disapproving gaze and straightens himself up a bit in his chair. "Well, unless anyone has any questions?"

Fortunately, no one does, and with a screech of wooden desk chairs and a cacophony of voices, they all rise to leave.

Ron and Harry, per routine, fall into step beside her. They've both been lucky enough to have been made Prefects this year. Or unlucky enough, in their opinion.

"Hermione," Harry says casually, a question in his voice, as she gathers up the rest of her things. He's looking at her rather thoughtfully. "Have you ever thought of becoming a Professor? Of what I've seen of you being Head Girl, I think you'd be great at teaching."

"Yeah," Ron cuts in boisterously, "that meeting was so dreadfully boring, I think you'd fit right in!!"

"I don't know, Harry," she says, completely ignoring Ron's comment, as she moves around the desk. After years of friendship, she's learned that it's usually the best way. "I've never really thought about it before...." Aware of her words, she trails off uncomfortable.

Realizing his mistake, Harry looks down. "Oh... yeah."

Ron's face screws up in a unreadable expression and he looks in the other direction but she knows the exact thought going through each of their minds because it is one in the same. There is an unspoken agreement between them and Harry's question has simply been a small slip up. The thing is, she's never thought about what she wants to be – and neither, she knows, have the boys - because the idea of living past their eighteenth birthdays is a luxury. A false hope only to be crushed by certain, imminent death. Together, they've come to accept their part in the war against Voldemort as a burden and an honorable task, yet inescapable all the same. Because though it is rightfully Harry's burden to bear, he knows that Hermione and Ron will never leave him to shoulder it alone.

"I'd always thought we'd become Aurors together," she ventures quietly, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah," Ron agrees distractedly, "I've always wanted to be an Auror."

They move across the room to the door, the boys flanking her on either side, and she's not aware of being so involved in her own thoughts until a deep, familiar voice snaps her out of her daze. "Granger, a word?"

At the sight of Draco Malfoy standing in front of them, Harry and Ron instantly snap into defensive mode, shoulders squaring, eyes narrowing in distaste. Strangely enough though, there hasn't been any altercations between them in quite some time. She has a sneaking suspicion that the newfound civility between her and Draco has caused Ron and Harry to be much less inclined to throw protective older brother type fits of anger.

All the same, Ron speaks up first. "Do want us to stick around, Hermione?"

She sighs internally, rather bemused at the whole situation in general. If only Harry and Ron knew the extent of what has been going on between her and Draco. Outwardly, she says, "No that's okay, I think I can handle the dirty little ferret on my own."

Harry and Ron chuckle openly at Draco's expense, and apparently quite confident with her ability to protect herself, they make their way out of the classroom. As far as they are concerned, the only threat at the moment is the boredom of Head duties.

Smiling fondly after the boys, she turns around to face Malfoy who has moved to lean casually against the desk, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Dirty little ferret, Granger?" he says, "That wasn't very nice."

Still in a more or less capricious mood, she teases, "Who said I was nice?"

He smirks at her from his place against the desk, and shifts his weight, standing upright. "Hmm, touché. I rather like it when your being naughty."

As he moves towards her, Hermione swallows. Hard.

"Besides," she says, trying to steady her breathing, "I think it was a rather accurate description."

Now standing in front of her, he reaches out and runs a finger lazily along her jawline, down her neck, across her collarbone, in the dip between her cleavage and it leaves a trail of fire in its wake.

"I'll have you know I have impeccable grooming habits," he says, his eyes following his movements, "And little? Ha!" He leans back to look down at himself, "Also, I'm pretty sure I'm human."

"Oh," she breaths, as he leans forward and the trail of his finger is replaced by his lips, "I stand corrected." He continues to graze his lips against her, tormentingly softly, reminding her of that pivotal morning in her room. "Clean, large human then?"

"I'd say that sounds about right," he mummers, his lips brushing against her own with his words and then finally,_ finally_, he presses them full against her mouth. The kiss is like a chemical reaction, and her blood boils, a spark of electricity shooting down her spine to the tip of her toes. It seems impossible that such a small amount of contact – the simple caress of his lips against her own – could cause such a reaction. Yet, every nerve is on high alert, and as the tip of his tongue probes her own, she feels goosebumps rise along her arms.

As his mouth devours her own, tasting, sucking, and biting, her body is on fire. And the only thing that she can think of to put it out is pulling herself closer. Draco must have the same idea because he leans forward and pins her against the wall, every inch of his hard, masculine body pressing against her own. Every curve against every hollow, like pieces of a warm, unbearable puzzle. She could stay like this forever, her blood humming pleasantly in her veins, a warm throbbing between her legs. But at the same time she has an unquenchable thirst for more. More skin, more heat, more touch.

She reaches up and twines her arms around his neck, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. But it's still not close enough so she presses her breasts up against his chest, her pebbled nipples rubbing painfully on the inside of her bra. He groans into her mouth and she feels the bulge in his trousers, hardening against her abdomen. Her inner walls throb, wanting, instinctively, that length buried inside of her, stretching her, pounding her against the wall. She moans at the thought, pushing her hips forward to find release.

And he pushes back, grinding his aching hardness against just the right spot and Oh, god, she thinks, if only they had a bed, if only they weren't in a classroom. A classroom. They were in a _classroom._

Hermione groans, and not in pleasure. "Draco, we can't do this here."

"Why not?" He breaths, only half aware of the conversation. He's still kissing her, his wandering hands caressing and rubbing her curves.

"It's....Oohhh--," she moans as he touches a particularly reactive spot, but quickly regains control over herself, "It's indecent."

"Indecent?"

The word brings an iota of concentration to the Slytherin and as he comes back to himself, he seems to realize the nature of the situation also. Or more accurately, realize exactly whom he has pressed up against the wall so intimately. Granger. Hermione Granger. _Virginal _Hermione Granger. He winces briefly, wondering how far this classroom tryst would have gone. To say he got carried away is a bit of an understatement; the girl makes him loose his head.

Yet with a mood swing that would rival his fathers, he's smiling again.

"Well, I guess you leave me no choice. I'm taking you back to my room to shag you senseless." With that he grabs her around the waist and hoists her over his shoulder. Hermione screams playfully at the turn of events, her legs kicking in the air frantically. He's joking, that much is obvious; it's not like he could carry her off down the hallway like this.

He laughs and slaps her exposed bum and she kicks harder, screaming, "Put me down this instant!!" He bobs her around a bit, enjoying her predicament and he's laughing freely when he suddenly realizes her playful squeals of protest have died down. He turns around, swinging Hermione's legs around the other way, and takes in what has been enough to silence her.

Blaise Zabini is standing in the doorway, looking rather amused. Again.

"Sorry," he says, but he doesn't look it at all, "I didn't mean to interrupt. Just forgot my bag."

Draco tenses, and then realizing the complete ridiculousness of having Hermione still thrown over his shoulder, sets her silently back down on the ground.

At loss of words, Draco and Hermione both watch the dark haired boy run three rows down, hoist a brown leather satchel over his shoulder, and make his way back towards the front. Without a word, Blaise gives them a brief salute and is out the door.

Draco looks down at Hermione with a small amount of alarm. "Well, that was awkward."

"Yeah, talk about rain on the parade."

He looks at her like she's spoken gibberish. "Rain on the what?"

"Rain on the parade," she tells him, "As in '_Don't rain on my parade_'. It's a muggle saying."

In an incredibly uncharacteristic action, Draco suddenly bursts into peals of laughter.

"Haha! I get it! Rain on the parade! Meaning no more fun." Much to her chagrin, he reaches out with one hand and messes up her hair. "You muggles say the craziest things."

Glowering at him, she runs her hands over her rioting curls, smoothing them back down. "If only Voldemort was amused by muggles so easily," Hermione laments dispassionately, "we'd be in a much different situation."

* * *

End of chapter Seven.

A/N: Always like to end the chapter with a bit of humor, or a bit of angst. *hint hint for next chapter* So, been meaning to ask, what do you guys think of my song selection at the beginning of the chapters? I don't necessarily want you to listen to them while your read ( I find music distracting) but I like to set a little bit of an atmosphere.

I'll update right, right away. I have most of the next chapter written.

P.S. Review?


	8. Wipe that smile off your face

A/N: Hiya. Sorry for the huge long wait. It's summer, I'm lazy and I was at the lake. Anyway, here's the next little twistaroo.

The song is "Wipe That Smile Off Your Face" by Our Lady Peace. I see it as life giving Draco a reality check in the form of a kick to the pants. Bwahahaha.

Warning: There are a lot of f-bombs in this chapter.

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Draco is not in a good mood as he makes his way from the Quidditch pitch to the showers in the Slytherin change rooms. The sun had long ago dipped beneath the horizon and the cold night air that's settled over Hogwarts' grounds does nothing for his rapidly plunging temperment. And the reason for it? The team is not looking good this year. _He_ should have been made captain, not that blockhead Timothy Greene. The entire practice had been a crock. Greene is nothing but a fucking idiot, Draco thinks furiously as his boots crunch loudly over the dew covered grass, he wouldn't know flying tactics if they came up and bit him in the ass.

What's worse, he had watched disgustedly last week from the edge of the pitch as the-boy-who-lived-to-annoy-him caught the snitch in under ten minutes.

And they have a game against Gryffindor coming up this Saturday.

And it's Monday. Meaning they only have four bloody days to improve the team one hundred percent.

Entering the low brick building, Draco sighs and moves his way directly towards the showers. Grimacing at the pain in his sore muscles, he props his booted feet – on at a time - against a low wooden bench and proceeds to unlace the straps. That done, he slowly peels his sticky, sweat covered uniform off his chest and then removes the green and silver bottoms. He walks towards one of the eight shower heads that stick out of the tiled walls in the large square room, and cranks on the tap. He braces himself against the wall with both hands, head down, and as the cool spray of water beats down on his head and shoulders, he withholds the urge to groan loudly in pleasure. That is just not something you do in a boy's change room.

Draco is lost in his thoughts and the relaxing feeling of the water when there is a sound from behind him. He glances over his shoulder and watches Blaise Zabini, also naked as the day he was born, take position several feet away under another of the shower heads

For five minutes, there is nothing but silence between them, and the constant lull of the showers running. When Blaise finally speaks, there is a fine mist of steam and condensation on the tiles.

"So, you and Granger?"

Caught slightly off guard, Draco looks over at him. "What?"

"You and Granger," he repeats and even through the steam, Draco can tell he's smiling like the cat that caught the canary.

"There's nothing between me and Granger," Draco deadpans.

Blaise laughs out loud and Draco has the strong urge to ring his neck. "Come on, Malfoy," he says, "I've walked in on you two twice now."

Draco has half a mind to deny the accusation but that is definately a bad choice. Zabini is one of the few people he considers genuinely intelligent and the dark haired Slytherin would certainly catch on faster then Draco could to talk his way out of it. He opts for the next best excuse and tries to shrug nonchalantly.

"I'm just fucking her," Draco lies, hating himself that much more as the words leave his mouth, "we share a common room. It's convenient."

The water beating down on his sore shoulders suddenly feels much less pleasant, and he really wishes Zabini would just shut the fuck up.

But of course, he doesn't.

"Are you sure about that," he says, and there's a condescending humor in his voice, "you guys looked mighty cozy."

Slytherin politics is an intricate dance, one where you don't dare change the steps. A dangerous game, and one wrong move can send someone tattling to daddy. In retrospect, it had been too easy. He was Lucius Mafloy's son; there had never been any question of where his loyalties lied. There had never been any other alternative. Now, that isn't something Draco is so sure about.

Having a conversation like this, in the open, with another Slytherin, is not a good idea. It is time, Draco thinks, to put an end to it.

"Shut the fuck up," he sneers, "Granger's nothing but a dirty mudblood." His lip curls in disgusts and he knows it is the perfect imitation of his father.

Blaise looks at him strangely from across the room and if Draco didn't know Slytherin's, he would say he looks almost disappointed.

"Yeah. Just a mudblood," the dark haired boy echoes hollowly.

With a frown, Draco turns away, back towards his own shower and in this moment nothing makes him feel so sick and lonely as his secrets.

~*~*~*~*~

By the time Draco returns to the Head dorms, it is after midnight and Granger's door is closed. He briefly entertains the idea of knocking on her door and seeing what would ensue, but firmly stamps the urge down. She definitely seems like the type that would not be pleased with being woken up on a weekday, no matter how attractive the disturber may be.

With this amusing thought, he makes his way across the living space to his own room, quietly whispering his password - _Salazar_ - to the closed wooden door. It opens and he steps within, squinting against the darkness before noticing a large shape outside his window, outlined by the moon. Draco pulls out his wand and casts a quick '_lumos_'. On closer inspection, it's nothing more then an eagle owl sitting on the perch outside.

With a click, he opens the latch on the large pained window and watches the owl fly gracefully into the room. Automatically, Draco's eyes fall on the small tan envelope tied to the birds scaly leg, and he quickly plucks it from the tethers. Letter in hand, he sits down lightly on the edge of his bed. Something heavy rolls to one corner of the envelope. Anxiously, he tears the seal open with his index finger and removes a small slip of paper. A note.

He quickly reads the elegant scrawl.

_Sunday. Midnight_

That's all it says, two words, but Draco knows exactly what they mean. This coming Sunday, sometime past twelve a.m. he will be getting the Dark Mark. There is no question about it.

He tips the envelope further and something round and silver tumbles into his open palm. It is a beautiful ring, heavy set silver with a large ornate 'M' carved in the middle, surrounded by small emeralds. It looks hundreds of years old, because it is. It is the Malfoy family crest. Passed down from father to son on his twenty first birthday, it is a metaphorical symbol of becoming the man of the household.

Lucius could have just as well sent a howler of himself laughing maniacally – it would have essentially conveyed the same meaning.

Because this ring, this hateful Malfoy heirloom is nothing but a taunt. A sick, twisted way of saying "_Grow up and fall into line. You belong to me."_

And with this realization comes a horrible icy burning from deep within Draco's chest, twisting and tightening until he finds it hard to breath. A black fire, moving outward from his heart, cold flames spreading to lick at his limps. Devouring what was left of his freedom. His life.

Draco stands slowly and places the ring, heavy in his palm – too heavy – on the bedside table. Restlessly, he starts to pace his room. Once, twice, breathing shakily, wanting nothing more then to start yelling and screaming – _fuckfuckfu__**ckfuckfuck**_– or just lie back down, silently, and never wake up.

His thoughts are running through his mind on rapid fire, scrolling so fast they seem to blur into nothing but a rush of white noise and his eyes glaze over, staring into space. Draco shakes his head, snapping himself out of it and runs his hand raggedly over his face, chocking on a sob. With the action, his mind latches onto a random, stray thought – his cheeks are rough with a days worth of fine growth. Yes, he thinks rather insanely, he needs to shave. Yes, he'll just go shave. That's a great idea. He moves quickly to the bathroom, bumping his shoulder on the door jam in his haste to leave his room.

Reaching the bathroom, he opens the medicine cabinet and picks out the olden style shaving set– it too, with the beautiful ivory handled razor, was a gift from his mother. He swirls the bristles against the soap, building it into a rich creamy lather. Tipping his head up to the mirror, he watches himself apply the white foam to his cheeks and neck, making a thick layer. His reflection in the mirror is startling; his eyes look haunted, trapped, like a wild animal.

Picking up the razor from the porcelain edge of the sink, he snaps it open in one hand and eyes the silver blade. Bringing it to his face, he runs the straight edge slowly and firmly down his cheek at the perfect angle, clearing a line through the thick white foam. Then another line, stopping to rinse the build up of cream into the sink, until he turns his wrist and skims the sharp edge carefully over his jawline, under his chin half a dozen times, and lightly over his his upper lip. Dropping his hand, he inspects his work briefly in the mirror, turning his face this way and that, and then moves to bring the razor back to his cheek only to find it, curiously, already in use.

Stunned, he looks down to watch his pale hand - clutched around the ivory handle - press the razor into his skin and pull it across his forearm for what must have already been the fourth time; there are already several stinging red lines etched into his skin. Draco stares down at his wrist, transfixed, and the blade stills against his arm, as if waiting for his choice. When had he made the choice in the first place? A small drop of blood beads up under the pressure of the sharp edge, growing bigger until it escapes, rolling over the curve of his wrist. His gray eyes follow the movement as it falls through the air and then hits the floor with a small, silent splash.

The bright red splatter against the stark white tile is oddly, yet alluringly, satisfying.

His gray eyes flick back to his wrist, and his eyes follow the motion as he pulls the ivory handle from the bottom of his wrist, excruciatingly, exquisitely slowly - cringing lightly as he is finally aware of the pain – to the bend of his elbow.

This time the crimson drops fall like rain.

And then he's cutting and cutting away until there's nothing left but the burning behind his eyes, in his heart, and along his arms.

-------------------------------------------------------

End of Chapter Eight

A/N: Okaaay, I'm sorry, the end really wasn't supposed to be that angst-y and psycho. I was gonna end it with him finding the ring but then BAMWAHAM my sick sense of melodrama jumped up. I am so freaking horrible to Draco. Already in this moment I have a couple half finished stories where I make him an alcoholic or just plain tortured and insane from being a Death Eater. I just can't leave this poor boy alone!! Anyway, as this chapter is kinda foreshadowing, everything in the next chapter goes KABLOOEY in their faces. W00t.

And Draco and Blaise in the shower was weird. I mean, what do guys talk about when they're naked?

Well, sorry for the delay! Do you still love me? Cause if you do, you should REVIEW! (ha, that rhymed)


	9. Before all hell breaks loose

A/N: The song for this is "Exit Music" by Radiohead. God, I love it. Listened to it on repeat while writing this. Sorry about the delay. Summer. You know. And in regards to the last chapter: I can't outright say if that was the last time Draco will cut himself, but trust me, I'm not going to drag out his suffering forever.

P.S. I've been waiting_** forever **_to write this chapter. W00t.

P.P.S It's really long :) I just separated some of it into the next chap.

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His first conscious thought: there is sun shinning on his face. He can see it, even from behind the darkness of his closed eyelids. The bright early morning sun is filtering through the stain glass window of the bathroom in vibrant shades of red, fuchsia, green and blue right onto his pale, unsuspecting face.

Draco blinks three times, squints and pulls himself upright from the cold tiles. Annoyed, he brings an arm up to block the blinding light and abruptly hisses through his teeth in pain. Ah. Yes. His arms.

Detachedly, he looks down and admires the damage. The skin from his wrists to his elbows, on both arms, looks like he's climbed through razor wire. What's more, the cuts and the blood he didn't care to wipe off have dried in long lines and streaks, acting as a binding agent between the torn skin. With every movement, the dry blood cracks open painfully.

Gingerly, mindful of his movements, he stands from the floor. With this action, the room spins mildly around him, but he's still able to take into account the splatters of blood that morbidly paint the tiles. Cringing, Draco decides he'll deal with that later. Then, with quick deliberation he moves towards the large claw footed tub and shower. He hasn't indulged in this particularly odd habit since Granger found him in here weeks ago. Yet it is more of a functional need this time, he rationalizes; the blood isn't going to wash itself off.

Draco undresses quickly, steps into the porcelain tub and per routine, turns on only one of the taps. The water comes spiting out instantly, raining down on his blond head. Exhausted, he lowers himself into a sitting position. It stings painfully, the water, burning his already hyper-sensitive nerves in the open wounds. He is aware of the amount of pain, yet reaching forward to turn down the temperature seems too much of an effort. He can't bring himself to move.

Sitting in the tub, staring blankly into nowhere, Draco finds himself doing the one thing he most wishes not to. He starts to think. And once he starts, he can't stop. He thinks of the owl in his room the night before. Of the note, and the elegant scrawl. Of his father, the Dark Mark and his freedom. Of Hermione Granger, who is still sleeping soundly in her warm bed, tucked safely away from the likes of Lucius Malfoy. But how long will that last, Draco wonders, how long will she go undamaged while he selfishly draws her – pure and warm and golden – ever closer to the all consuming black fires of the Death Eaters and his own dark, miserable life.

Thinking over his actions now, Draco wants nothing more then to drown himself in the swirling water beneath him. At a young age, he'd recognized in himself some impulsive and selfish tendencies. At the time, he'd blamed his parents for it. They'd given him everything and anything he'd ever wanted, the moment he'd thrown a fit for it. Yet in time, he'd learned that it was simply his nature; that he could not rest until he'd gotten what he wanted. And he'd wanted Granger – to taste her, to touch her, to make her his own, so he'd impulsively done just that. He'd never once thought about what he was doing, or what the consequences would be.

With the newfound weight of his careless actions pushing down on his shoulders, Draco drags himself up from the tub and stands on the plush emerald bathmat. She deserves better, he thinks with cold resignation as the water drips from the tips of his blond bangs, she deserves a happy, carefree life. A life with Potty and Weasel and family and sunshine and – god forbid – a brood of little red-headed babies.

And with this last rather disturbing visual, Draco has made his choice. In a small part of his mind he wonders why this decision doesn't hurt. _Because it's the right thing to do_, his mind whispers back, _because you know you don't deserve her._ Or maybe, he thinks, it is because there is nothing left of him to hurt.

*~*~*~*~*~*

It doesn't take Hermione very long to realize something. Draco Malfoy is ignoring her.

She had realized this fact two days earlier when instead of subtly brushing against her arm in the crowded hall in the rush between classes – which he has a slightly annoying and endearing habit of doing – he'd walked right on by without even sparing her a look. And then, instead of meeting her in the Head Common room after rounds like they'd planned, he'd never showed.

But by far, the icing on the cake is this; not only does he ignore her, but since Tuesday morning, Draco Malfoy has been walking around Hogwarts like the prodigal son. Like he'd never become quiet and withdrawn at the beginning of seventh year and virtually snubbed his fellow Slytherins. Like he'd never stopped walking around school with Crabbe and Goyle, terrorizing the younger years. Like he hadn't spent the last several weeks snogging her brains out.

Suddenly, much to Hermione's horror, it is like he had never left his position of Slytherin Prince and Lucius Malfoy's spoiled son. What's worse, glad to have their leader back, the fellow Slytherins flock to him. Once again, Crabbe and Goyle have become his constant shadow. Pansy Parkinson has become his perpetual arm candy. The sheer way she hangs off of him sickens Hermione, and not, she convinces herself, from jealousy.

In all the weeks they'd spent together she hadn't realized how entirely different Draco had been acting this year until he'd suddenly returned to his old behavior. And seeing him now, walking around Hogwarts like a cocky prat – like he once again owned the place – is something she had not been prepared to deal with.

At first, when it became dreadfully clear that he would have nothing more to do with her, she became acutely panicked. Her first thought had been of pranks, and jokes, and Slytherin cruelty. With their history, it hadn't been completely out of the question to think that he had only been using her for some kind of sick game. But as soon as the thought came to her, she brushed it aside. It just didn't ring true; if it had all been a simple prank he would not have hesitated to brag about it to his fellow Slytherins. And there had been no horribly embarrassing whispers circulating Hogwarts yet. Also, and most importantly, someone could not fake the emotions she'd seen in his eyes.

By Wednesday afternoon, Hermione has moved passed her initial fear and into a new territory of emotion - anger. _How dare he!_ she thinks furiously, how dare he pretend like nothing had happened between them! Sure, he has problems, but to treat her like this – like she no longer exists – is completely unacceptable. Confusion, annoyance and anger are simmering under her skin like a boiling cauldron. Why was he acting this way? What had happened in the last few days to make him change? The questions alone are enough to drive her mad!

Finding it simply impossible not to take action against such absurd behavior, on Friday evening, Hermione has made her decision; she is going to get answers out of him if it is the last thing she does.

Sometime in that same hour, following a sort of impromptu plan, Hermione Granger finds herself hidden behind a rather ridiculously large stack of books in the Hogwarts Library. She's taken up watch at one of the tables in the far corner, her pile of texts arranged around her like a shield. A spying shield. A stupid-Malfoy-prat-spying shield.

She tilts her head around the edge of '_The Basics of Charms' _and her amber eyes narrow across the room as a group of Slytherins laugh uproariously over something that's been said. Blaise Zabini, Gregory Goyle, Vincent Crabbe, Pansy Parkinson and, of course, Draco Malfoy are seated fifty or so feet away, earning the brunt of Hermione's piercing gaze.

From her vantage point Draco seems to look like nothing more than a carefree and average Seventh year, albeit a rather good looking one. If she didn't know him so well, she might be fooled also. Yet, because she had spent so many long hours watching his expression, waiting for the moment when something she said would bring real happiness to his eyes, she can see the minute differences. She can hear the forced tone of his laugh, see the fake mirth in his eyes.

But that is not all she sees. There is the casual way he keeps his arms crossed over his chest, as if guarding himself. The almost imperceivable wince when Pansy roughly tucks her arm into his. Hermione frowns worriedly, knowing exactly what that small wince means.

Somewhere between that frown and another troubled thought, she stands from the table. With courage she never knew she possessed she finds herself walking straight towards their table. Inhaling deeply through her nose, Hermione squares her shoulders and gathers herself together. She's walking directly into Slytherin territory, into the line of fire; it's not a very pleasant thought.

As she nears the table, one by one, the Slytherins take notice of her and their chatter dissipates into an awkwardly stunned silence. Yet that is not completely true, because Blaise Zabini is watching her with a large amount of excitement and curiosity.

When she stops and is standing in front of them, Pansy is the first to say something. "Look who we have here, little muddy Granger," the girl sneers, a nasty smile on her fat pug face. Crabbe and Goyle snicker, something like a low grunting sound.

Though her fists clench, she completely ignores Pansy and the others at the table, her gaze turning to the object of her ire. Her eyes find his face, skim over the familiar blond fringe, around the edge of his sharp jawline, over the planes of his face and then finally settle on his gray eyes, her gaze locking into his with a jolt. For a moment she feels like the world is melting away around them, the walls and sounds falling back until there is only the two of them in the room. And then, from the corner of her eye, she watches the edge of his mouth pull up in a smirk. A mocking smile, with absolutely no humor or familiarity in it.

And she wants to scream at him, shake the answers out of him, shake that bored, mildly curious look off his handsome smirking face. _Is that all I get!_ She wants to scream, _is that all I get after all these weeks. Mildly curious?! _

With utmost reserve, lest she burst out of her own skin, she asks politely, "Malfoy, could I talk to you for a moment?"

He has the nerve to shrug indifferently. "Sure."

It is almost as if she is watching a movie of herself as Draco pushes back his chair, stands, and steps away from the table. He motions for her to lead the way, and detachedly, she walks back towards her own table with Draco on her heals. She makes her way to where she knows there is a rather secluded corner of the library and they find themselves behind a tall shelf of books. Draco turns to her, his eyebrows raised in faint interest.

Seeing him now, in front of her, she instantly losses all resolve to do what she'd planned. "I--..."

When she doesn't continue, his expression turns to annoyance. "Spit it out Granger, I don't have all day."

Hermione inhales deeply, and though she knows he's watching her, she closes her eyes briefly in an effort to collect her thoughts.

"Is this it?" she asks, trying for nonchalance, though her heart beats noisily in her ears.

Now he doesn't look only annoyed, but confused also. "Is what it?"

"Is this who you really are?" She motions towards him with a flutter of her hand. "Is this the real Draco Malfoy?"

And there it is, gone so fast she almost misses it; a glimmer of emotion behind his steel gray eyes. Something akin to fear.

"What are you getting at?" he asks warily.

"I simply want to know if this is the real you," she says, and is intensely proud of the controlled tone of her voice, "because it seems to me that you were acting like a completely different person only four days ago. And I'm going to assume it's not completely out of the question to say that, four days ago, we were something very close to friends. And as far as I know, friends don't suddenly start ignoring each other. So, if we weren't at least friends, what have the last few weeks been to you?

"A temporary lapse of judgment," he says and smiles at her, patronizingly, and though she knows he's trying to be condescending she can see something else hidden behind his gaze "But don't worry, it won't happen again."

And though this is it, her biggest fear being voiced, she squares her shoulders in resolution. "I don't believe that for a second."

Many emotions pass over his face at her words, before finally settling on anger. "Don't be so fucking stupid, Granger," he says, "you're a smart girl, you must realize that you were nothing but a distraction, an interesting way to keep me occupied when I was bored."

She shakes her head. "No. You're lying."

Draco growls in the back of his throat and runs his hands through his hair in frustration, causing it to stand up at odd, endearing angles. He heaves a great sigh, and his hands fall back to his sides and when he looks back down at her all the anger is suddenly gone. It's been replace by such an overwhelming sense of fatigue, of such tiredness in his eyes that she instantly feels sorry for rilling him up.

He sighs heavily again and runs a hand over his face, before looking her directly in the eye. "You don't mean anything to me, Granger," he says slowly, enunciating every syllable. "It's over. I want nothing to do with you. You're just a mudblood."

The minute the words leave his mouth it feels like every organ in her body has sunk and slithered into the grown below her. She wants to say something, anything, but her mind is eerily blank of thoughts. And then, a moment later, she realizes he is walking away, already several feet back towards the open area of the library and she stumbles hurriedly towards him.

"Draco-" she grabs a hold of his sleeve and he turns, tearing it from her grasp.

"Don't. Just leave me alone."

And she watches, feet glued to the worn carpet, voice caught somewhere in the back of her throat, as he turns and walks away.

--------------------------------

End of chapter nine.

A/N: I wrote out a general chapter outline the other day and I'm thinking this fics gonna be somewhere around 20 chaps, give or take. I'm warning you now that there's going to be a lull in my writing in between the 11th and 15th chapters, because that is the main 'meat' of it all, and I already have most of the end parts (chapters 15 to 20) written, so I'm going to be antsy about getting there.

Anyway, the best chapters next. I'm pumped.

Review please?! I'll give you a cookie!


	10. The war in your head

A/N: Man, oh man, do I ever love ze angst. Again, sorry about the delay. I suck at updating.

Better a little bit then nothing at all, right?

I couldn't decide between 'Suicide Note' by Johnette Napolitano and 'Running up that hill' by Placebo cause they both kick so much ass.

* * *

The air in the Head common room is still and stagnant, and Hermione Granger has never been more aware of her own solitude. She has been sitting here – on the left cushion of the burgundy couch – resolutely waiting for Draco since he walked away from her in the library earlier that night. Several hours have come and gone since then and yet, by midnight, he still hasn't returned. She imagines he is in the Slytherin dungeons, possibly playing a game of exploding snap with Blaise Zabini, Crabbe and Goyle not far off, breathing ridiculously loudly through their mouths.

One would think that after the unsuccessful confrontation in the library, Hermione would leave well enough alone, at least for one night. But such is not the case. It is fair to say that Hermione Granger has never left anything "well enough alone" in her entire life, and therefore, why would she start now? Furthermore, in her mind, it seems like a extremely good idea not to allow Draco to have any time to 'regroup', per se, before she launches her next attack.

The sound of the portrait door creaking open breaks her out of her thoughts and she jumps up from the cushions, throwing down the pillow that she'd had clutched in her arms. She moves purposefully around the couch, facing the common room door and the violently blond young man who has just walked through it.

Draco stops in his tracks after noticing her, and regards her without emotion or surprise, although it is obvious that she has been waiting up for him.

"I thought I told you to leave me alone."

She nods her head and purses her lips in thought. "Yes, well, I decided I wasn't going to listen to you."

She had anticipated anger or frustration over her response but the reaction she gets from him is innately more disturbing. He simply smiles, nothing but straight white teeth, and there is a familiar look in his eye, a certain instability behind it that, with a sudden swift clarity, she can finally identify. For what she once saw as an air of boyish recklessness now comes across for what it really is – utter apathy for life in general.

He chuckles humorlessly, and shakes his head at what she presumes is supposed to be her own amusing behavior. Then, he's waved her off with a brief dismissive gesture and is walking towards his room.

Hermione moves to the right and blocks his path. "Stop this! I want to talk to you," she says, because it is already obvious that that is what she wants.

He looks at her and smiles again and she can't help but feel like his carefully placed shell of haughty indifference is only moments away from cracking. She's reminded suddenly of the childhood nursery rhyme about the egg that fell off a wall, breaking to pieces. How _"all the kings horses and all the kings men, couldn't put him back together again." _For some reason, this makes her shiver.

"We have nothing to talk about," he says, and makes to move around her.

She mimics his move and blocks his path once more.

"Of course we do. Don't treat my like an imbecile, Draco. Did you not think that I would wonder why you're avoiding me?"

He ignores her question quite blatantly. "You were right, Granger," he says lightly, "this is never going to work out."

He tries to step around her and she moves in his path again.

"I want to talk to you."

He moves to the left. "No."

For the last time, she blocks his path. "Yes!"

"Can you fucking move!" he bursts out.

"No! Not until you tell me what's wrong!"

He glares at her, breathing through his nose in anger and she is pleased to have finally gotten some sort of reaction out of him.

"Nothing is wrong, Granger! Leave me alone! I don't need your help, I don't need anyones help, I can take care of myself!"

"Oh, _sure _you can," she seethes, and at the same time has grabbed a hold of his hand and wrenched him forward. Before he can protest she's taken a hold of his shirt sleeve and roughly pulled it up, revealing in sickly detail, the inside of his right forearm. Her eyes widen briefly in shock at the amount of damage he's done to himself, but settle into a steely resolve. "Because you've been doing such a _good job_ of it already," she finishes sarcastically.

He pulls his arm back from her grasp and doesn't say a word as he tugs his sleeve back down in angry jerking motions. His expression is cold and guarded when he looks down at her and her eyes instantly soften, trying to reach out to him.

"I know it can be hard, Draco, and you must feel alone and misunderstood sometimes," she starts, more gently this time," but I think I can –"

"Don't tell me how I fucking feel!" he snaps, abruptly cutting her off, "You don't know anything."

Her own frustration boils to the surface. "Well, then tell me! You never tell me anything, I want to help!"

"I'm not some fucking pity case who needs help, another person for you to save!"

"No! That's not what I meant, Draco, please –"

"What? What do you want to know?" He's suddenly grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, shaking her so that her hair whips against her face. "That I have _issues_? That I'm going to be forced to get the dark mark! That I have to get it in_ two fucking days _and I don't want it, but if I say no my father just might _kill me."_

Hermione can do nothing but shake her head, a hand over her mouth in shock but Draco is nowhere near done.

"Or maybe you wanted to know that I hate myself?" His hands drop from her shoulders and he steps back, turning to pace the room."That I hate my life, my parents?! Did you know that my mother has never once told me that she loves me? She thinks buying me things means the same thing. And forget about Lucius, his favorite past times are beating me to within an inch of my life and selling me off to the Dark Lord. "

He abruptly turns back to her, registering her horrified expression and all the anger drains from his body, leaving him empty and weary. "No, I'm sorry," he says, "I don't think you wanted to know any of that."

To her utter horror, as she bites down on her bottom lip, her chin starts to wobble. _No, I am not going to cry,_ she thinks furiously.

"I'm trapped, Granger," he says, standing motionless in front of her and there is a horrible resignation in his voice, "I'm trapped in a bloody hell of my own making." He shakes his head, and behind his eyes there is the shattered memory of a million heartaches. "And all I wanted was for him to love me."

She needn't ask who he is referring to, the truth of it is in every strained line of his face, of every misconstrue action he'd ever had. Every time he'd called her a Mudblood. With acute clarity, Hermione is finally able to see whom Draco Malfoy truly is; nothing but a lost young man, desperately trying to imitate his father, wanting nothing more then approval. The reality of his life brakes her heart to pieces.

"Do you know what my best option is," he continues quietly, "the best possible option for me is that I die tomorrow. That by some freak accident I get hit in the head by a bludger, topple fifty feet from my broom, hit the pitch and die. That's about all I have to look forward to."

"Don't say that," she croaks out, and the tears that threatened to spill have started running down her cheeks, "you don't mean that."

He looks like he wants to agree with her, if only to stop her tears, but instead he sighs and turns away. Then, just as quickly, he stops and glances back over his shoulder. "I really am sorry that I ever called you a Mudblood. I hope you know that." And it is such a simple, useless thing to say.

The tears continue to fall, even in her embarrassment and again she is left frozen, watching his back as he walks away from her. Then, moments later, something snaps deep within her and she knows that this time, she won't be left behind.

She runs forward and reaches his room in time to catch the door from closing. She pushes against it with one hand, and it reopens surprisingly easily.

"This isn't over yet!" She declares to the world in general but Draco is already shuffling around the papers on his desk, looking for something, and the effect is rather lost. He doesn't seem to have heard her.

"Draco?" she questions, quieter this time.

He ignores her and moves to his bedside table, pulling it open to riffle around in gods-knows-what. She catches a glimpse of his face and it is eerily impassive; like watching a zombie.

"What are you doing?" she asks warily and he continues to ignore her, digging around more frantically.

Her confusion only grows as she moves forward and he pays her no more attention then before. Then, abruptly he stops and pulls something from the drawer. She catches a flash of silver in his hand. A pocket knife.

Alarm bells instantly go off in her head and she jumps forward, attempting to grab his arm. Finally taking notice of her, he dodges her arms and vaults to the other side of the bed. With the unsurprisingly green duvet separating them, she watches him flick the knife open in one hand.

Her eyes narrow. "No. No, don't you dare!"

He shrugs indifferently and rolls a sleeve up and Hermione suddenly remembers that she is a witch. With a flourish, she pulls her wand from her robes

"Accio knife!"

The pocket knife tugs free from his hands and soars across the bed towards her. With a cry of outrage, Draco makes a last ditch effort to grab it and scrambles halfway over the comforter before she catches it firmly in both hands.

She smiles haughtily at him as he pulls himself upright from the bed and sits up on his knees. He's breathing raggedly in anger, his eyes narrowed dangerously at her. They are abruptly the same height at this moment, and she slowly feels a trickle of fear at the uncertainty of what his next actions will be.

"Come 'ere," he mutters suddenly, pulling her forward, and before she can gasp his lips have descended upon hers.

The knife slips from her slack fingers and clatters noisily to the wooden floor, forgotten.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

End of chapter 10

A/N: I liked describing Draco as 'violently blond'. I stuck that in randomly on a whim and smiled to myself, lol. Most of the end of this chapter was written on a whim, also.

A/N EDIT: I reworked the first several paragraphs 'cause they pissed me off.


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